


Serpentine

by Shiny_n_new



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood mage Dorian Pavus, Canon-Typical Violence, Consent Play, Dom Dorian Pavus, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Mind Control, Praise Kink, Soul Bond, Sub Cullen Rutherford, dubious consent due to that soul bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2020-10-25 16:30:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 126,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20727293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_n_new/pseuds/Shiny_n_new
Summary: Dorian Pavus: Tevinter magister, blood mage, faithful Inquistion ally. Though Cullen has his doubts on the last bit. Still, it's all going surprisingly smoothly, right up until the ancient elven ritual that leaves him very firmly bound to that same "friendly" blood mage.(A blood mage!Dorian, soulbond AU)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this absolute trope-fest, friends! I am hugely looking forward to it, and I hope you enjoy it. Several paragraphs of italicized text indicates a flashback.
> 
> Posting schedule should be bi-weekly. Hit me up in the comments or on my Tumblr (linked in my profile), I love to chat!

In the chaos after Haven, the long and frigid trek to Skyhold, Cullen hadn’t had the time or ability to give the Inquisition’s new Tevinter magister the attention he deserved. There were simply too many other lives in the balance for him to dog Pavus’ footsteps the way his instincts demanded. Even when they arrived at the safety of the castle, there was still so much to do. And given that the Inquisitor had made it _ quite _clear that Cullen was to keep his sword well away from the mage, it seemed easier in general to just focus on neverending list of vital projects.

It was a surprise, therefore, when Dorian Pavus rapped sharply on the door to his office and then let himself in one evening shortly before the Inquisitor was due to depart for a trip to the Hinterlands. 

“I’m busy,” Cullen said, not bothering to rise from his desk. “Unless this is terribly urgent, I’m afraid you’ll need to come back tomorrow, Magister.”

“It’s nearly the middle of the night, Commander.” Pavus was underdressed for the mountains as ever, wearing his assortment of leathers and buckles that was apparently the height of fashion in Tevinter. (On this, Josephine and Leliana were in agreement, and Cullen certainly didn’t know enough about it to argue.) “Most of the castle is abed.” 

“And yet, there’s still work to be done.” Cullen dipped his quill in ink again and offered Pavus a tight, polite smile. “As I said, tomorrow would be better.”

“Ah, but I’m here now.” With more flourish than was strictly necessary, Pavus took a seat across from him. He leaned back, the picture of relaxation, like they were old friends having a chat over tea. “I wanted to speak to you, Commander, man to man. I know you object to my presence here.”

“I’m far from the only voice objecting, but yes, I do.” Cullen was glad he hadn’t removed much of his armor. Being bulkier and physically bigger than Pavus was a simple advantage, but a useful one. This conversation wouldn’t stay pleasant for long, doubtlessly. “Still, Inquisitor Trevelyan has made his orders perfectly clear. So long as you continue _ following _his orders and stay in his good graces, you have nothing to fear from me.”

“I have nothing to fear from you regardless of the circumstances, Commander.” Pavus’ smile was bright, his teeth very white, his eyes very merry.

Cullen’s jaw twitched, lips curling into something that could possibly be mistaken for a smile in the right light. “Cassandra mentioned that you were witty. Well, if all you needed was to talk, Magister, I’m afraid I really must get back to work.”

“Magister is a political title, you know.” There was no way Pavus did not hear Cullen’s dismissal for what it was, and yet he was still sitting in his damned office. “I find most people in the South assume it’s used to address any mage from Tevinter, but that’s simply not the case. It is very polite, though, to hear all of you using it.”

“Fascinating,” Cullen drawled. “I’ll keep that in mind should we receive any of your countrymen as visitors. Now-”

“You’re more familiar with Circle titles, no?” Pavus had the nerve to pick up one of the books on Antivan history on Cullen’s desk and start thumbing through it. “What’s the Southern term for a dashingly handsome mage of unrivaled power?”

That was quite enough. Cullen leaned over the desk, looming over Pavus and placing a hand squarely in the middle of the book. In a pleasant tone, he said, “That depends. It’s often regional.”

“Oh?” Pavus’ expression was perfectly calm.

“Yes. In Ferelden, if you had been particularly cooperative, you might have been addressed as ‘prisoner’ or perhaps ‘Tranquil’, though I think it unlikely. In Kirkwall, though, we only had one title for blood mages: dead.”

Pavus _ smiled _at that. “There’s the Knight-Commander I had hoped to chat with.”

“I don’t know why you’re sitting in my office baiting me,” Cullen said, his voice hard, “but I assure you, the Inquisitor’s fondness for you is not universal. If you don’t leave in the next few seconds, I will _ remove _you.”

“It must bother you terribly,” Pavus said, batting his kohl-lined eyes at Cullen like this was a friendly chat they were having. “Your Inquisitor, the proud mage rebel, happily accepting a Tevinter magister and blood mage as an ally. It must be like a splinter under your skin.”

“You don’t know me, or anything about me,” Cullen snapped. “I have chosen to serve the Inquisition because I believe in our mission, and I believe we are the only force that can stop the Elder One. If that means we must accept the help of someone I’d sooner behead, then I’ll swallow that.” He straightened and sneered, “The world is far more important than you, believe it or not.” 

Pavus rested his chin on his hand, his smirk still firmly in place. “The Iron Bull pretends it doesn’t bother him either.” 

“Then why don’t you go irritate him instead?” 

That made Pavus chuckle and lean back in his chair. “You know, from the stories I heard about you, I expected you to be some kind of mindless brute.”

If Cullen had been greener, he would have demanded to know what Pavus had heard. But he could recognize bait when he saw it now. “That will teach you to listen to gossip. Now get out.”

“I have a proposal for you.”

“No.”

“Ha! Not even curious what it is?”

Cullen scowled. “We had a saying in training. ‘A desire demon cannot tempt someone who won’t lend it their ear.’ It seems applicable.” 

Pavus flattened a hand against his chest in a parody of surprise. “Commander! Are you comparing me to a desire demon? I’m flattered, I had no idea you’d been looking so closely. I agree, I am very tempting.”

Reliable as ever, Cullen felt a blush creep across his cheeks and up the tips of his ears. “Pavus, get out of my office or I’ll force you out and have you thrown in the cells.” 

“I want to spar with you,” Pavus said, like it was a perfectly normal request.

“What? No!”

“Whyever not?”

Because Cullen knew the Inquisitor would never believe any injuries Pavus took hadn’t been deliberate malice on Cullen’s part. Because Cullen didn’t trust himself not to kill when the electric, copper tang of blood magic was in the air. Because Cullen wasn’t taking lyrium, and the only people besides him who currently knew that were Cassandra and the senior healer; if any mage was cunning enough to figure that out from one sparring session, it would be would be one of the Inquisitor’s chosen companions. Aloud, Cullen only said, “Why do you even want to?” 

“You southern Templars are more of a challenge than your Tevinter brethren.” Pavus shrugged. “I’ve been the victor in every fight so far, though. I’m curious whether I could beat you.”

“You’ll have to remain curious.” Cullen’s tone was acidic.

Pavus brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulder. “Well, if you don’t think you can win, I suppose that’s that.”

He couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. “I’m not a teenager, mage. That won’t work on me.”

Rising to his feet, Pavus just smirked. “What won’t work? It’s clear your pride won’t bear a loss to me. I understand.”

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, that’s it, you’ve figured it out. Now _ leave _.”

In retrospect, the fact that Pavus made no parting shot when he strode out of Cullen’s office should have been ominous. At the time, Cullen just did his best to banish the entire encounter to the furthest reaches of his mind.

Leliana’s information on Magister Dorian Pavus was both too much and too scant. If Cullen desired, he’d have been able to acquire copies of Pavus’ class transcripts from all the various Circles he’d been kicked out of during his troublemaking youth. Their spymaster could also give a list of his favorite brothels, wines, silk merchants, and probably mustache waxes. The general consensus from Leliana’s agents was all the same, though: Pavus was talented but volatile, prone to hedonism and difficult to rein in. His apprenticeship to Magister Gereon Alexius had been a stabilizing influence, but that fell apart sometime in 9:37. After going on the sort of bender that only a well-heeled wastrel could afford, Dorian was dragged back to his family estate.

What happened at the estate was the source of quite a bit of speculation in Tevinter’s gossip-hungry upper echelons. The official story, repeated to the Inquisitor by Pavus, was that Dorian’s father killed himself and Dorian had discovered his body. The rumors were that Halward Pavus had been murdered, either by his son personally or by an assassin paid by him. Regardless, Pavus had taken his father’s place in the Magisterium soon thereafter, where he cultivated a reputation for both pro-reform policies and surgical ruthlessness.

It was not an encouraging picture, to say the least. Cullen could still remember the long, worried discussion with the other advisors when Maxwell’s letter had reached them from Redcliffe.

_ “Whatever happened at the family estate, that is some sort of key.” Leliana tapped her fingers on where Qarinus was marked on their war table. “None of my spies could find any evidence of him using blood magic before that. After that, though-” _

_ “We _ cannot _ have a known blood mage working with the Inquisition.” The very thought made Cullen’s skin crawl. “The damage it would do to our reputation, to our morale, it would be catastrophic.” _

_ “Officially, Tevinter’s position is that blood magic is illegal,” Josephine said, wincing at the obvious lie even as she said it. _

_ Leliana shook her head. “His use of blood magic is an open secret, according to my sources. Word will filter south without a doubt, and the Inquisition will have to grapple with it one way or the other. We can only suppress this for so long.” _

_ “Maxwell seems very taken by him.” Josephine twirled her quill between her fingers, deep in thought. “Perhaps we could claim that he was so inspired by the Herald that he renounced blood magic?” _

_ “And when people see him using it?” Cullen asked, aghast. “When people in Haven start disappearing? What then?!” _

_ “Technically, the people in the best position to judge what is blood magic are other mages, and Templars,” Leliana said, arching an eyebrow at him. “If our Commander were to vouch for him-” _

_ Cullen was outraged. “Absolutely not! I won’t do it, Cassandra won’t allow it, and you’re out of your mind if you think Madame de Fer would agree to it, either.” _

_ “Is this merely a matter of personal dislike?” _

_ He hated it when Leliana used that tone, and his voice was sharper than it needed to be when he responded, “I will not have the Inquisition looking like a band of incompetent fools, and that’s _ exactly _ how we’ll seem if I’m cheerfully supporting a Tevinter blood mage while he’s sacrificing people behind the Chantry!” _

_ Josephine sighed. “Cullen is right. Denying the blood magic if it is obvious will make it look as though we’ve been hoodwinked by Tevinter, or are under their control. That is something we cannot afford, especially with the rebel mages coming into the fold.” _

_ “So what advice do we offer the Herald?” Leliana asked. “What is to be done with Pavus?” _

_ The three of them weighed the question. Cullen tried for a light tone when he said, “Well, there’s always the trebuchets.” _

_ That was enough to break the tension. Leliana smirked and shook her head, while Josephine poked him with her quill. “I have told you to stop threatening people with that!” _

_ “Because cutting out their tongues is kinder?” _

_ “Cutting out their tongues is efficient,” Leliana responded. _

_ “I will write the Herald, expressing our...concerns,” Josephine said, cheering slightly at having some course of action. “Cassandra is traveling with them. Perhaps she can talk sense into Maxwell.” _

Cassandra, alas, could not talk sense into Maxwell. The compromise they reached was that Pavus would be allowed into the Inquisition, so long as he publicly supported their story about him renouncing blood magic and stuck to it. Maxwell had been delighted. Cullen and Cassandra had locked themselves in Cullen’s office and gotten roaringly drunk.

Still, Pavus had been true to his word. His skill with magic couldn’t be denied, and between his use of necromancy and his tendency to fling fireballs, he apparently resorted to blood magic rarely. When he did, it was deep in the wilderness where only the Inquisitor and his travelling companions were witness to it.

“He only uses his own blood, or takes it from enemies,” Iron Bull had reported, looking no more pleased than Cullen felt. “That’s better than the gaggle of blood slaves half the magisters would travel with, at least.” 

Cullen had gritted his teeth and borne it. Keeping Pavus monitored and avoiding him had gotten him through three months of the blood mage’s presence. The magister’s appearance in his office marked the longest conversation they’d ever had. He planned for it to be the _ only _conversation they had that wasn’t directly related to Inquisition matters. By the time Maxwell and his party, Pavus included, returned from the Hinterlands, four weeks had passed and Cullen thought the matter closed.

“Dorian says you won’t spar with him,” Maxwell brought up, in lieu of absolutely nothing. He and Cullen were in the midst of marking enemy positions on the War Table, and Cullen was so surprised that he nearly knocked over a good portion of the Orlesian troops.

“What?” he asked, once he’d recovered and steadied the markers.

“He says you won’t spar with him,” Maxwell repeated, as if the problem was with Cullen’s hearing. 

At only twenty-three, the Inquisitor was just beginning to outgrow his teenage habits. With bright blue eyes and curly copper hair, Maxwell looked even younger than he was, and Cullen had to frequently remind himself that he was only six years Maxwell’s senior. It was difficult to remember, sometimes. Like now, when Maxwell was bouncing on his toes and smirking. 

“He’s correct.” Cullen’s voice was clipped. “Now, you say there were holdouts in Lady Shayna’s Valley? Were they--”

“Why not? Afraid you’ll lose?”

Maxwell reminded Cullen of Branson, in moments like these. Both of them enjoyed needling people they considered overly-serious. Cullen was always one of those people.

“Inquisitor, can we please focus?”

“I want to know why not,” Maxwell said, a stubborn set to his shoulders.

Cullen let out an irritated sigh and scratched at the back of his neck. “For a variety of reasons, the most important being that training accidents can happen even to the best of us, and it’s ridiculous to risk injury for no reason during a time like this.”

“You spar all the time with Cassandra and Iron Bull.” Maxwell had a mulish look on his face.

“Because we are all using blunted swords and shields.” Cullen didn’t _ mean _to sound like a teacher scolding his pupil, it was just so easy to slip into that tone accidentally when Maxwell was being immature. “Magic is inherently more unpredictable, something I shouldn’t need to explain to you.”

The Inquisitor’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re scared?”

“For Andraste’s--” Cullen counted back from five to keep from snapping something rude. “No. But there’s no good outcome of the fight, Inquisitor. If I win, it might encourage others to attack Pavus, given that his presence is only barely tolerated by most of the castle to begin with. If some fool gets it into their head that he’s an easy target, it could end in bloodshed.”

“And if you lose?” Maxwell’s voice held a clear challenge, and Cullen just barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes.

“If I lose, it would loudly declare to three-quarters of Skyhold that no one can protect them from the ‘reformed’ blood mage if he chose to become violent. People are already afraid of him, there is no need to make it worse.”

Maxwell considered that. “You’re right.” 

Cullen relaxed.

“Spar with him outside the castle, where you won’t have an audience. That way, it can’t damage morale.” Maxwell looked very pleased at his idea.

There was a headache forming behind his temples, and Cullen felt an ache for lyrium. “Inquisitor, with all due respect, I’m not going to entertain this idea any fur-”

“With all due respect, you work for me.” Maxwell very suddenly did not look playful. “You do as I command and you serve at my pleasure.”

Cullen stared at him, flabbergasted. Maxwell pulled rank so rarely, and usually only as a deciding vote during War Table meetings. He had certainly never done it for some petty indulgence like this.

“Ostwick was a very peaceful Circle,” Maxwell continued when Cullen didn’t respond. “Not like Kirkwall. We stayed neutral in the war, and all of our Templars were very serious and boring. I don’t know how a skilled Templar fights. Dorian’s fought plenty of Templars. I want him to assess you.”

“_Assess me _?!” Cullen spat, anger making him snarl. “If you have some worry regarding my competence, take it up with Cassandra, not-”

“I’m taking it up with you, right now.” Maxwell’s expression was unyielding, defiant. He seemed angry, though Cullen couldn’t fathom why. “I’m giving you an order, Commander. Spar with Dorian, tonight. You can use the east-most training field. It will be empty after dark.” At Cullen’s silence, the Inquisitor’s eyes gleamed, and he added, “Or are you refusing an order from a mage?”

A dozen different reproaches and curses were on the tip of Cullen’s tongue, and he realized his lips were drawn back over his teeth. He breathed out, counted back from ten this time. Then he nodded stiffly. “Very well.”

Maxwell brightened immediately. “Good. Wait, where are you going?” 

“You can finish giving your report to one of the officers.” Cullen rounded the War Table, not looking at the Inquisitor.

“Wait, Cullen, you can’t just-” He grabbed at Cullen’s arm, then stumbled backwards when Cullen whirled on him and shoved him away.

“I am not a toy!” Cullen could barely recognize his own voice through the venom in it. “The people who serve you, we are not toys! If you want to use your position to play games, fine, but I won’t smile and play along!”

Then he flung the door open and stomped down the hall. He didn’t stop, even at the sound of Josephine calling his name. It wasn’t until he was safely locked in his office that he finally let himself snarl and punch the wall. It left his knuckles bloody and aching, and that helped keep the ghosts of Kinloch at bay. 


	2. Chapter 2

The easternmost training field was a grassy plateau outside the walls of Skyhold, about 400 feet down the mountain from where the castle walls began. Once a fence had been set up around the perimeter, it had been an ideal place to run troop drills for larger units, ones that couldn’t easily fit in the Skyhold training yard.

The extra space would make it less likely that he and Pavus would injure each other. And it really was abandoned at night. Infuriating though Maxwell was, he was correct about that.

Pavus was waiting for Cullen in the center of the yard, the torches bolted to the fence already glowing merrily. He seemed equally merry. “Hello again, Commander.”

Wordless, Cullen entered the ring and pulled his gauntlets and helm from a bag. It would have seemed too odd to leave the castle wearing them, and so he had waited to put them on until he reached the field. Kneeling, he checked that his greaves were firmly strapped in place across his shins.  


“The silent treatment, then?” Pavus asked, when Cullen continued ignoring him. “I didn’t ask the Inquisitor to set up this little match, you know. He took the initiative all on his own.”  


“Let me be clear,” Cullen said, once all of his armor besides his helmet was in place. “We aren’t here to chat, or exchange quips, or gossip. I’m here because I’ve been ordered to appear. When we’re done tonight, I don’t want to speak to you again unless it is for Inquisition business.”

“A shame.” Pavus was in his usual ridiculous leather outfit, the buckles gleaming in the torchlight. His staff was strapped across his back. “I know a lot of good gossip.”

“I don’t care.” Cullen slid his helm on, the snarling metal lion obscuring his features. “We go until what would be a killing blow.”

“Not just first blood?” Pavus smirked.

Cullen said nothing, simply adjusting his shield on his arm and drawing the blunted training sword he had brought with him. Another time, he might have opted for a lighter wooden sword that would leave less of a mark if it hit flesh. He wasn’t feeling particularly polite tonight.

“Very well, Commander.” Dorian pulled his staff loose, twirling it once before falling into a fighting stance. The long, wicked black blade on the end of it skimmed the ground. “At your word.”

“Go,” Cullen simply said, bringing his shield up.

They circled each other, neither man attacking immediately. Pavus’ staff was angled slightly towards Cullen, and Cullen correspondingly angled his shield forward to deflect any fireballs. Cullen watched Dorian’s shoulders, his hands. Some Circle mages neglected their footwork, preferring to stand relatively fixed while spellcasting, but Cassandra had reported that Dorian was light on his feet. Cullen’s armor would at least obscure some of the more subtle movements that were obvious on Pavus.  


“I quite like that helmet,” Pavus said, gaze flickering to Cullen’s head. “A very angry pussycat. Is that meant to be you, Commander?”

Cullen did not pause, still watching Pavus for the first move.  


That made Pavus smirk even wider. “For someone as waspish as you are, you’re actually quite hard to bait.”

Cullen made a show of shrugging his shoulders, carefully telegraphing the movement so it could be seen through the armor and furs. “I find that it’s better to-”

And then Cullen struck suddenly, mid-sentence, his sword flashing out at the arm Pavus held his staff with. Pavus had to skip back several feet to avoid the swing.

“Aren’t you quick?” Pavus laughed, the patronizing little shit. Then there was fire building at the tip of his staff, a vortex of it shooting towards Cullen in a scorching wave. There was no more time for quips after that.

Pavus was also quick, his staff a flashing, burning beacon of light in the dark. Varric had nicknamed him ‘Sparkler’, and Cullen could see why. There were sparks everywhere, whirls and gouts of fire surrounding them both. It looked uncontrolled, but Cullen suspected that it was a deliberate trick to force his opponents into distraction using the heat and the bright lights. Clever, and especially likely to unnerve enemies who weren’t clad in armor and could feel the dangerous warmth of it. But there was a saying among the older Templars that Cullen hadn’t understood until he had been serving for a while: ‘trust in the armor, trust in the shield.’ The metal of both would take the brunt of any impact, physical or magical, and flinching back as if he was defenseless would only leave him open to attack. So he rolled and ducked, uncaring of the small licks of fire along his chestplate or shield. It would not harm him, and he would not yield.  


Their fight took them from one corner of the training yard to another, with neither gaining an obvious foothold. Cullen had the advantage of armor and a shield, but Pavus’ magic gave him a much farther reach and his fireballs were occasionally quick and hot enough to hold Cullen in place until the barrage ended. Cullen scored a good blow against Pavus’ thigh; with a real sword, it would have opened a deep cut, possibly disabling. But on a real battlefield, Pavus would have corpses to raise, multiple enemies to distract Cullen with, so the blunted sword seemed at least fair. Anyway, it was far more satisfying to throw his shoulder behind his shield and charge forward, knocking Pavus onto his ass in the dirt.  


A greener warrior might have stopped to say something clever, but Cullen simply drove his sword downward, planning to “impale” the mage and end the fight. Pavus’ hand flashed up, a burst of bright Fade-green at his fingertips, and suddenly Cullen was surrounded by a shrieking, whirling vortex, tearing at him like a wolf. He staggered back, away, ducking behind his shield and jabbing out at what seemed like the main mass of the demon, only for the vortex to end just as suddenly as it began.

_ ‘Horror’ _ , Cullen thought, memories flickering quickly through likely spells. Necromantic magic was foreign to him, his training focusing on the branches more commonly taught in Ferelden, Orlais, and the Free Marches. But he had always been an eager student, and the Entropy School that Necromancy drew much of its foundation from was not unfamiliar.  _ ‘Summons spirits to inflict panic, fear, siphon mental stamina and leave enemies open to distraction and attack.’  
_

A Templar should have been easily able to dispel it, a decent Cleanse enough to nullify the effects entirely. Much of a necromancer’s skill set involved using spirits to attack, spells which Templars were uniquely talented at suppressing. That was probably why Pavus had been attacking with the far more physical danger of fire so far, saving his mana for blows that would actually land.

But Cullen had not taken lyrium in over a year, and he was now just as vulnerable as anyone else. This was exactly what he had  _ not  _ wanted Pavus to figure out.  


He dodged sideways, just missing the sweep of Pavus’ staff, and began a more aggressive attack. If he could just distract Pavus and keep him from realizing Cullen couldn’t nullify his spells, then he might come out of this with his secret intact. For several parries, it seemed to work. Pavus kept mostly on the defensive. Then there was another blast of Horror, the disorientation of the sudden screaming chaos sending Cullen staggering. He gritted his teeth and kept his shield up, trying to reassure himself that the spirits could not do nearly as much harm as the fire. His Templar training helped, but it was still deeply disturbing to feel them scratching at his mind.

_ “let us in let us in let us in let us-” _

Cullen roared and charged Pavus again, but the mage had a strange, canny look on his face. There was another flash of green and it suddenly felt like a heavy, terrible weight was wrapped around Cullen’s torso. It sapped at his strength, at his focus, filling his vision with poisonous purple veins. He could feel it  _ coiling _ , about to strike, and he realized abruptly what Pavus must have cast. ‘Walking Bomb,’ the enchanters called it, a foul cluster of spirit energy that drew inward before exploding out, causing massive damage to anyone nearby.

He couldn’t nullify it or shake it off. It would explode and knock him senseless in a few seconds. Cullen’s eyes met Pavus’ through his helm, and Pavus grinned.

“Problem, Commander?”

But Templar training was not just the use of lyrium. Strategy was also emphasized, and many of the strategies had the same simple underlying principle: if a mage was casting a spell, make them  _ stop  _ casting that spell. There was more than one way to skin a nug, as the saying went.  


With a growl, Cullen tossed his sword at Pavus like it was a spear. His aim was clumsy and imprecise, since the sword was never designed to be thrown, but it startled Pavus enough to make him stumble back, giving Cullen the opening he needed to lunge forward and tackle him. He locked an arm around Dorian’s torso, keeping him from squirming away even as Cullen punched at whatever part of him could be reached. Pavus wasn’t quite pinned, but he was trapped close, and Cullen knew he would figure out the danger soon enough.

When the Walking Bomb spell detonated, Pavus would be right in the nexus of it with Cullen.

Sure enough, Pavus spat out, “ _ Vishante kaffas _ !” and the weight of the spell vanished entirely. Cullen laughed and drove his fist into Pavus’ side again. Whatever the outcome of the fight, Pavus’ torso would bear a constellation of deep bruises tomorrow.

They clawed at each other in the dirt, but Cullen had the advantage of weight and bulk even though Pavus was no slouch at grappling. He’d nearly managed to fully pin the mage when Pavus worked a hand free. There was a flash of blue-white light, and then a wave of cold so intense that it knocked the breath from Cullen’s lungs. That pause was all the opening Pavus needed.

The strikes were quick and nearly surgical in their precision. The massive burst of ice across his chest, to stun him and knock him back. A smaller but more focused burst at his ankles, binding them together and to the ground as if his feet were fish caught in a frozen lake. Another burst aimed at his sword hand, rendering it ice-locked and useless.

Battle-fury roaring in his veins, Cullen scrabbled on his belly for his shield and nearly reached it. The final burst of ice pinned his entire arm to the ground, leaving Cullen facedown in the dirt, fingertips inches from his shield. The ice on three of his four limbs locked him to the ground as effectively as a shackle, and his remaining free hand was a curled, frozen claw that he couldn’t even feel.

Pavus had won.

There was a long, pregnant pause, and Cullen realized what it was. He closed his eyes in despair. Pavus was waiting to see if he would try a Spell Purge, a Smite,  _ something _ . Any demonstration of his Templar powers at all.

When none was forthcoming, Pavus dropped onto Cullen’s back, digging a knee into his spine. A blade (it must have been the tip of his staff) was laid flat against Cullen’s neck.  


“I believe, Commander,” Pavus panted, “that would be the killing blow.”

He wanted to rage, to snarl, the fire of battle still roaring in him. But that would be unsporting, and not very dignified. Plus, he remembered belatedly, he did not like or trust the man holding a blade to his throat.  


“So it is,” Cullen bit out through gritted teeth. “This round goes to you, Magister. Now let me up.”

Pavus moved, but not to get off of Cullen. Instead, he drew his staff away, out of Cullen’s field of vision. Then his fingers were on the catch of Cullen’s helm.

“What are you doing?” Cullen barked, struggling uselessly. “Get  _ off _ !”  


“I’d like to see your face for this conversation,” Pavus said. Though Cullen was not exactly cooperative, he managed to pull the helmet off entirely, leaving Cullen’s head exposed.

It slightly widened his field of vision, and Pavus leaned forward further so that Cullen could see him. Presumably, he could also see the way Cullen bared his teeth and snarled, “We’re not having a damned conversation. You won, congratulations, get off of my back.”

Pavus laughed, the bastard, and then settled in more comfortably across Cullen’s back. One knee was in the dirt, taking most of his weight, but he was still heavy enough that Cullen couldn’t draw a full breath.

“You do fight like a lion, Commander,” Pavus said, his teeth glinting white in the flickering torchlight. “Or an angry alley cat. But I can’t help notice that something is missing.”

“You didn’t get to summon a single demon or kill anyone for their blood, I’m sure it was a very boring fight for you,” Cullen snapped, hoping to redirect the conversation anywhere else.

“Mmm, indeed, but  _ you  _ made the fight so much harder on yourself.” Pavus drummed his fingers on Cullen’s back. “Why not use your Templar abilities?”

“If you’re so eager for a Smite to the side of the head, I’ll happily arrange it, Pavus.”

“But it won’t come from you, will it?” Pavus leaned forward then, his fingers bunching in the sweaty curls of Cullen’s hair. He actually  _ sniffed  _ him. “Lyrium has a distinct scent. It’s not a bad one, but distinct. You southern Templars usually smell very strongly of it. Just standing near one of you is enough to get a whiff. Why can’t I smell it on you, Cullen?”

With a wordless, furious snarl, Cullen bucked, trying to throw Pavus off his back or smack him with his elbow. Pavus rode out the movement, still smirking, and asked, “Why haven’t you taken your lyrium like a good Templar?”

“That’s none of your business!”

“I think it is. After all, the Inquisitor asked me to  _ assess  _ you.” From the way Pavus purred the word, he knew exactly how much the mere idea rankled Cullen.

“I’ll  _ assess  _ you off the walls of Skyhold unless you release me! The match is over, and so is this conversation.”

“Maxwell doesn’t know you aren’t taking lyrium.”

That was enough to make Cullen still, whether or not Pavus meant it as the threat it was. Through gritted teeth, he said, “No. I plan to tell him eventually.”

“Ah, finally. Worn yourself out struggling?”

Cullen thrashed violently and threw his elbow back to show Pavus what he thought of that comment.

“All right, all right, no need to buck.” Pavus settled a hand on Cullen’s back, fingertips brushing the skin of his neck. “How long has it been since you’ve taken it?”

“This is-”

“I can always ask the Inquisitor to find that out for me.”

Cullen closed his eyes, absently settling his cheek more comfortably against the ground. “It’s been a year.”

Pavus made a low, curious sound. “I was under the impression that withdrawal would kill a Templar, or anyone acclimated to the lyrium like one.”

“It does, most of the time. I’m-” Cullen swallowed, annoyed that this confession was happening at all. “I’m testing it, to see if it can be done safely.”

When he left it at that, Pavus prompted him with, “Oh?”

Rolling his eyes, Cullen further explained, “Most Templars in danger of withdrawal are in dire straits to begin with. As far as I know, I’m the only person to test the effects of going without lyrium while still hale and supplied with food, clean water, and access to a healer. The best test subject there could be, under the circumstances.”  


“Why do that to yourself?” Pavus sounded genuinely interested, no edge of mockery in his voice.

“Because I’m not a Templar anymore, and I won’t wear their leash.” He breathed out harshly. “Not if I can slip free, anyway.”

“Hmm.” Pavus was silent for a long moment, drumming his fingers on Cullen’s back in thought. Then suddenly his weight was gone entirely and with a snap of his fingers, the ice disappeared from Cullen’s limbs.

Cullen rolled quickly to his feet, trying to shake the lingering numbness out of his sword hand. It was gratifying to see that Pavus was just as sweat-drenched and disheveled as he was. There was a long grass stain ground into his shoulder and cheek from when he’d been tackled, and a buckle on his shirt had been torn off entirely.  


“Well!” Pavus said, his voice cheerful. “That was bracing. Good night to you, Commander.”

And he turned on his heel and began walking off.

“Wait!”

“Yes?” Pavus half-turned to face him, an eyebrow raised.

Cullen ground his teeth. He wasn’t going to beg the mage to keep his secret. With a frustrated grunt, he just shook his head and said, “Good fight.”

“Indeed.”

Then Pavus hopped the fence and disappeared into the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just two dudes rolling around in the dirt!


	3. Chapter 3

Maxwell visited him the following afternoon, letting himself into Cullen’s office without knocking. Cullen was used to his office being a thoroughfare, and didn’t actually look up from his desk until the Inquisitor cleared his throat.

“Ah.” Cullen put down his quill and leaned back in his chair. “Hello, Inquisitor.”

Maxwell was holding a small box and looked sheepish. Though perhaps that was just the face he made before yelling at people. “Er, hi.”

Cullen waited. When the Inquisitor didn’t add anything further, he said, “Can I help you?”

“I wanted to apologize.” With that, Maxwell thrust the box towards Cullen. “Talking with the rebel mages, everything that happened in Redcliffe, and then being back in the Hinterlands and seeing all the reminders of the Mage-Templar war, it left me on edge. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. You’ve never been anything but loyal and helpful.”

Curious, Cullen took the box, wondering what fancy knickknack he would have to pretend to like. When he lifted the lid to reveal two dozen freshly baked squares of Ferelden shortbread, he couldn’t hold back a gasp.   


“Do you like them?” Maxwell asked, adorably eager. “Josephine said they were your favorites.”

Damn it all, this was why Cullen couldn’t stay angry at the Inquisitor even when he wanted to. It was like trying to stay furious at a mabari puppy. Between the big eyes and the desperation to be liked, maintaining an icy distance just seemed cruel.

“They are,” Cullen said, smiling. With the lid off, he could smell the shortbread, all warm and delicious. “Thank you, Inquisitor. Truly, I appreciate this.”

“Good! I’ll know what to bribe you with, next time.”

If it were anyone else, Cullen would have glared until he was reassured there wouldn’t be a ‘next time.’ But the Inquisitor looked like a child whose chalk artwork had just been praised. So instead, he just shook his head, still smiling, and said, “Just for that, I’m not sharing.”

“Dorian said you were incredible last night!”   


Cullen froze, halfway through putting the lid back on the box. He managed a fairly neutral, “Oh?”

“Yeah, he was really complimentary.”

“Is that so?” Cullen couldn’t hide his skepticism.

“Well, he was sarcastic, but he always is.” Maxwell leaned against Cullen’s desk, his face very earnest. “But underneath the sarcasm, he said it was a great fight. Although come to think of it, that might just be because he won.”   


Cullen rolled his eyes. “He won  _ once _ .”

“He said he locked you up in a sheet of ice?”

“After I nearly had him pinned,” Cullen groused. “He got lucky.”

Maxwell laughed, looking like any other carefree young man for a moment. After a few more minutes of chitchat, he took his leave and Cullen was alone with his thoughts and his shortbread.

He had not expected Pavus to keep his secret. He wasn’t sure what it meant that he had. Maybe the mage was just waiting for a more opportune time to reveal what he knew? But it was hard to imagine a more opportune time than this.   


Perhaps he’d bring it up with Cassandra. She’d traveled with Pavus and might have a better measure of the man. In the meantime, he was glad to be done with this nonsense. Munching on a small corner of shortbread, Cullen returned to work.

Life went back to normal, mostly, until a month and a half later. That was when a squadron of Red Templars ambushed a caravan in the Frostbacks and poured red lyrium down Cullen’s throat.

His memories of the attack were hazy, fractured things. He would never fully recover them, no matter how many of the reports he read. What Cullen was eventually able to summon was a fragmentary timeline:

_ -the hair rising on the back of his neck in warning, a faint, distant humming, something was wrong- _

_ -Templar armor, shot through with red, lying in wait. They must have killed the guards at the station ahead, they must have- _

_ -circling wagons, arrows flying, the scream of an injured horse. A rumble, the shaking earth, footsteps. A Behemoth. Some poor man or woman turned into a golem-sized monster of crystal, looming above them, one massive red fist coming down- _

_ -a hand on his chin, around his throat, holding him in place. “General Samson sends his regards, brother.” Then it poured down his throat, syrupy and red, and the world dissolved into a crimson explosion of pain- _

That crimson pain expanded until it encompassed the entire world and everything in it. The red was vast, all-consuming and entrancing, like it was a heart pumping blood and Cullen nothing but a drop in the veins of some great body. The whispers surrounded him, speaking in his own voice.

**We are here.**

**We have waited.**

**We have slept.**

**We are sundered.**

But no more. Cullen could feel them, thousands of his brothers and sisters, distant and yet undeniably present in his mind. The lyrium in his veins sang to them, and theirs sang to him, in his bones and blood and skin and  _ thoughts _ . Everything that he was, the lyrium sang back to him, all of him, all of them, together.

_ “-ull-” _

**We are crippled.**

**We are polluted.**

**We endure.**

**We wait.**

He was close, so close. It was not a choice, not a question of letting go consciously. It was more like breathing out, like relaxing in a quiet moment. Automatic and gentle. He could no more stop it than he could stop the tide.   


Except…

Something was in the way.

_ “-sound of my voice-” _

**We have found the dreams again.**

**We will awaken.**

_ “-ake up, Com-” _

The raw, red clarity was slipping through his grasp, and there was a terrible roaring noise in his ears as-

“Wake up!”

Cullen jerked awake as if he’d been jolted with electricity. He was at Skyhold, in his tower, in his bed. Staring down at him were Madame de Fer and a gaggle of wide-eyed healers. In the few seconds that he had to absorb the details, he saw that Vivienne was pale and looked strained, sweat beaded on her forehead. Then he curled on his side and vomited off the edge of the bed, into a very conveniently placed bucket.

“Welcome back to us, Commander,” Vivienne said, her voice as crisp as ever despite her obvious exhaustion. “Don’t speak, you’ll aspirate and undo all my work. There’s water by the bedside, drink that once you’re finished. You-” she snapped her fingers at one of the healers, a man Cullen vaguely recognized as the second-in-command. “-explain the situation to him while I fetch the Inquisitor.”

And then she swept from the room, not even a waver in her step as the healers stared with astonishment and Cullen continued heaving.   


In the quiet minutes that followed, Cullen sipped water and wondered whether it had ever hurt so much to breathe. The healers explained that the caravan Cullen had been escorting had been ambushed by a squadron of Red Templars that seemed to be specifically targeting him. They had poured red lyrium down his throat, and it was only the timely intervention of some of the Avvar scouts in the area that prevented them from abducting Cullen entirely. The surviving caravan members and Avvar had carried him back to Skyhold, and he had been unconscious for two days, nearly three. Nothing could rouse him. Vivienne’s ritual to drag him back to the waking world had required a great deal of lyrium, four hours of concentration, and she’d downed an entire bottle of elfroot midway through.

“Fetch me a mirror, please,” Cullen asked. His voice was a raspy whisper, like his throat had never been used.

The healer hesitated. “I...Commander, it’s just that-”

Cullen stared up at him, eyes steady. “Please.”

The mirror revealed what he already knew. His flesh was corpse-pale, his hair lifeless and plastered to his skull with sweat. His veins stood out thickly, horribly, reddish black and rootlike against his skin. And his eyes...the irises had already begun to change, streaks of crimson bleeding through the usual amber. They glowed faintly, he realized. Like fireflies.   


He was transforming into a Red Templar.   


“Oh, Maker, I thought--” Trevelyan’s voice was watery, his eyes suspiciously bloodshot as he peeked up the ladder. “I almost didn’t believe Vivienne when she said you were awake.”

“Inquisitor,” Cullen exhaled, trying for a smile and ending up with a pained grimace.

Maxwell dismissed the healers and sat on the side of the bed, studying Cullen with badly disguised horror. “I--you look, um--”

“The red lyrium is changing me,” Cullen said, sparing him the need to find the words. “I assume Vivienne hasn’t miraculously found a cure. How long do they think I have?”

“Not long.” Maxwell was fidgeting, his gaze darting from one changed feature to another on Cullen as if he wasn’t sure what was safe to focus on. “Days. If that. Vivienne wanted to focus everything on stalling the corruption long enough to wake you up and give you a chance to--to settle everything.”

Cullen nodded, feeling the bones in his neck clicking painfully as he did. “Sensible.”

“No, not sensible!” Maxwell practically burst off the bed, pacing back and forth. “You’re  _ dying _ ! Everyone is acting like all we can do is just wring our hands and sniffle about it!”   


His heart warmed, despite his own misery. “Everyone has to die one day, Maxwell. And there’s no cure for the red lyrium. Not even you can pull miracles out of thin air.”

“But maybe the Inquisition can!” Maxwell dropped back onto the bed, his expression serious. “I’ve had Solas and Dorian researching everything. Well, I’ve had everyone researching everything, but this is the most promising. Solas has found this ancient elven rite!”

“Solas found an ancient elven rite that reverses red lyrium corruption?” His face was too numb to properly raise an eyebrow, but Cullen hoped his tone conveyed the right skepticism.   


“Not red lyrium specifically,” Maxwell explained. “From what Solas says, it was a ritual that was developed in Arlathan, for people who had contracted extremely rare or virulent illnesses that the healers of the time couldn’t treat. But he thinks it should work on red lyrium, too, apparently there’s references to it being used to treat poisoning and the like. I can’t remember the exact words that Solas used, but it roughly translates to ‘The Reforging of the Body and Mind.’ It essentially yanks all the poison, the tumors, the disease, whatever, out of someone. It cures them entirely.”

“You’re saying the ancient elves had magic that prevented them from ever dying of any illness or poison?”

“Not exactly?” Maxwell shrugged. “It’s the sort of thing that can only really be done once in a person’s entire lifetime. Which was ‘forever’, for the elves back then.”

Cullen wasn’t sure what name to give to the sparks of feeling Maxwell’s words caused. They weren’t strong enough to be hope or optimism, but the interest was there, wary. “And he thinks that it might actually work? Even though I’m not an elf?”   


Maxwell nodded, a tentative smile breaking across his face. “He does. He says some of the Fade spirits even mentioned it being used on humans.”

Nodding, Cullen took as deep a breath as he was able to. “Well, it certainly isn’t something we’ve tried before, I’ll give him that. What does the ritual involve?”

“Magic,” Maxwell said, patting him on the hand, “so just leave that to the mages.”

“I’m not a child, Inquisitor, I can handle a bit more explanation than ‘magic,’ thank you.”

Maxwell’s expression flickered, worry breaking through before he could smooth it back out into an encouraging smile. “All right, er, sorry. Most people get a glazed look and don’t care. So, the thing is…”

“Yes?” Cullen prompted, when it was clear the Inquisitor was not going to continue.

“The ritual is pretty complicated.” Maxwell ran his hands across the blankets compulsively. “Ingredients, time, expertise, all of it. It’s not the sort of thing that someone could just  _ do _ . There was--it was--”

“Maxwell, if it’s, erm, too expensive-”

“No! No, Andraste’s tits, it’s not  _ that _ , it’s--” Maxwell’s grimace was downright pained. “Listen. From the context of what Solas has told us, it’s not the sort of ritual a mage would agree to for no reason. It would establish a connection between the mage who casts the spell and the person being healed.”

The sparks of not-hope began to dim. “A connection? What kind of connection?”

“A mental one.” Maxwell bit his lip. “A good portion of it happens in the Fade, and the mage and person they heal are always able to walk in each others’ dreams after that, to shape a little corner of the Fade just for themselves. Like a  _ somniari _ , a dreamer, but only for-”

“And the ancient elven healers formed this bond with all of their patients?” Cullen asked, his pulse beginning to pick up as a terrible suspicion formed in his gut.   


“Uh, well, no, it was also a one-time thing.” The Inquisitor was wincing now, shoulders hunching around his ears, every bit the student about to be scolded.   


“Trevelyan.” Cullen’s voice held a surprising amount of steel, given how wretched he felt. “This isn’t a healing ritual, is it?”

“It can be used as a healing ritual, and that’s how we’ll use it!” Maxwell said, immediately defensive.

“What is it?”

“That doesn’t matter, you can use a hammer to hit people or to hit nails, the context of it--”

_ “What is it?!” _

“It was used to permanently bond one person to another, all right?” Maxwell snapped. “That’s what the ‘reforging’ part of the name comes from, the mage casting the spell could heal a terminal illness or--or cure a crippling injury or even grow back a limb for someone, and in exchange, the person being healed was, erm, connected to that mage for the rest of their life.”

“Enslaved,” Cullen realized, feeling the blood drain from his face. “It was used to enslave people.”   


“No, no, wait!” Maxwell leapt off the bed again, too full of nervous energy not to pace. “That  _ can  _ be what it’s used for, but that doesn’t mean  _ you’ll _ be enslaved, that’s not what anyone here would ever-”   


“And how would you prevent it?” Cullen’s voice sounded thin and wobbly even to his own ears. “How would  _ I  _ prevent it? In the Fade, when this mage is  _ reforging  _ me, do I get to change them in return? Put anything in place to protect myself?”

Maxwell was silent but clearly scrambling for words, his mouth opening and closing several times.

A thought bubbled up, and something like hysteria forced it out of Cullen. “And who would be enslaving me, Inquisitor, for my own good? Solas? You?”

Maxwell shook his head rapidly. “No, Cullen, please, just calm down, this is all a lot to take in right now.”

“Vivienne?” Cullen’s eyes narrowed. “You said you had Solas and Pavus researching this, while Vivienne worked to wake me up. Why wasn’t Vivienne involved in the research on the ‘healing ritual’, exactly?”

_ Bullseye. _ Maxwell flinched, guilty. “I think we should take a couple minutes to just--”

“It would take quite a lot of power to grow back a limb, to heal a shattered back, to force lyrium from a living body,” Cullen snarled, his voice rising to a scratchy shout. “Do we have that much lyrium in the castle? Or were we going to get another source of power?!”   


Maxwell ran his hands through his hair, the movement sharp and angry. “Maker, Cullen, is that really what you’re worried about in the middle of all this?”

A sharp, biting laugh burst from him. “Oh, I’m sorry! All my inconvenient questions are keeping you from your grand idea of enslaving me to a Tevinter magister using some ancient elven blood magic! That must be  _ very annoying _ !”

“That isn’t fair!” Maxwell shouted back, his face going red. “I’m trying to save your life, and you know that! Dorian is trying to save you! I know you don’t trust him, but he’s a good man and he saved me! He’s not going to hurt you. Are you really going to die just to spite him?!”   


But Cullen didn’t answer, couldn’t. His breath was coming too fast, even as he had the alarming feeling that he wasn’t getting in any air at all. He could feel his heart racing in his chest, hammering like he was in the middle of combat, and he realized belatedly that he had begun shaking from head to toe. Cold sweat burned across his skin, and numbness was spreading up his fingers.

_ Damn it all, _ he thought, perversely glad he was breathing too fast to sob properly. It had been  _ years  _ since he’d been through what the sisters at Greenfell had called ‘an episode’. He’d hoped that he was finished with them entirely. The steps for coaxing himself through one came back to him slowly.

“Cullen?” The Inquisitor sounded alarmed. “Maker, Cullen, are you--I’m getting the healers!”

“Ngh!” He hoped the grunt was interpreted as a negative, because having more people in the room would certainly not help matters. Then he did his best to ignore Maxwell entirely, to focus only on his own breathing and on one nearby object. In this case, his bedpost. He stared at the grains of it, the small chip in the corner where he’d nicked it with his sword, and made himself take long, slow breaths. The firelight played across the smooth wood. He was safe. He could breathe, he was safe, the only thing he needed to do was focus on the details of his bedpost and breathe in and out.

When his heart had finally stopped racing and Cullen’s throat no longer felt like it was about to close up, looked over at the Inquisitor. Maxwell was watching him, the concern on his face so obvious that it was heartbreaking.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Cullen’s tone was clipped, but his voice was under control again. “That was...unrelated to the lyrium. It happened a few times when I was younger. I’m fine.”   


Maxwell took a step closer, looking like nothing so much as a cautious deer, and when Cullen didn’t rebuke him, he sat on the edge of the bed. His shoulders hunched miserably. “Cullen, I...I don’t know what to say.”

“I know that you’ve worked very hard to try and save me,” Cullen said, leaning back against the headboard of the bed to keep himself upright. Episodes had always left him terribly drained, and that was when he was in perfect health. “I know that. I value that, truly. But Max, I won’t be bound to someone in some magic ritual, not even to save myself. I won’t have blood magic used on me.”

“If it’s because of Dorian, then-”

“It has nothing to do with Dorian.” That was only half true, but better for the Inquisitor to focus on the next part of his words. “I will not let myself be made a slave, and I will not use blood magic, not even to save myself. Do you understand me?”

The Inquisitor rolled his eyes, sending fury shooting through Cullen, but he just repeated, “Do you, Inquisitor?”

“If you weren’t so close-minded-” Maxwell began, but that caused Cullen’s temper to snap entirely.

“You are little more than a child!” he roared, slamming a fist against the bedspread in frustration. “All you know of blood magic, you learned from gossip floating around the Ostwick Circle. It must have seemed so exotic! So exciting! I have  _ seen  _ blood magic. I have seen mages and Templars alike having their throats slit to summon horrors, or to force a demon into a terrified, begging apprentice. I have been  _ bled _ , Inquisitor, and seen my blood used to fuel atrocities!”   


That was...that was far more than he ever wanted to share, especially with the Inquisitor. Maxwell was staring wide-eyed at him, looking a bit like the child Cullen had named him.

After a deep breath, Cullen continued, “It doesn’t matter if you think it’s irrational. I won’t have blood magic used on me. That is my choice, and my right.”

“The healers say you’ll die within two days, if the corruption doesn’t turn you.” There was desperation in Maxwell’s voice, a well of genuine sorrow. In the face of it, Cullen found his anger draining away. “You’ll  _ die _ , Cullen.”

“Dying was a daily possibility in Kirkwall,” Cullen said, his tone gentler. “Some days, it seemed like the only possibility. And before that, during the Blight...I made peace with the idea of death a long time ago. What I wanted was to know that I had done something good, something worthwhile before I went. Serving you and the Inquisition has been--”

His voice broke, to his shame, and he had to look away for a moment to gather himself. “The Inquisition has done so much good already. You’ll continue to. I’m proud to have been a part of that, Max.”

“And if you turn?” Maxwell leaned forward, gripping Cullen’s arm. “If the red lyrium doesn’t kill you, it will-”

“Then it will corrupt me,” Cullen agreed. He was glad that his voice sounded firm, that the creeping terror and disgust he felt at the idea wasn’t immediately obvious. “I’d ask that you have me put down before I can harm anyone.”

The Inquisitor just shook his head, a few strands of copper hair falling into his face. “You’re not a rabid dog, I can’t just--”

Cullen remembered what it was like to be twenty-three and feel like the world was on his shoulders. The difference was, the world really was on Maxwell’s shoulders. If he could make things easier for him, even just a little...

He put a hand over the Inquisitor’s, squeezing gently. “If you can’t bear it, I understand. Set me loose on the enemy, then. Let me die a soldier.”   


Maxwell wrenched his hand away, stumbling to his feet. His voice was choked as he said, “We’ll finish this conversation later.”

But they did not, and for that, Cullen was grateful. Instead, his hours were filled with attempting to set his affairs in order during his final, precious days. It was frustrating, bed-bound as he was and unable to stay awake for more than a few hours at a time. Pain wracked his body nearly constantly, and elfroot could only numb it, not remove it.

He could still write, however. In between instructions, lists, suggestions, he found himself writing long farewells. This stack of letters to his family, to the nephew he would never meet. These ones to Cassandra and Josephine, both still on the road back from Val Royeaux. This one to Varric, who had taken advantage of the seemingly quiet period to sail back to Kirkwall. This one to Knight-Captain Rylen, who would likely be informed of Cullen’s death  _ by _ the farewell letter, given how vast the Western Approach was. And more, many more, made so much harder by the fact that words had never been Cullen’s strong suit. He was no bard or diplomat, not like Josephine or Leliana.

Even Leliana, though, seemed to struggle to find words in those final days. Cullen awoke to find her by his bedside, her eyes puffy and bloodshot. She simply said, “It isn’t fair. None of it is fair.”

Cullen reached out and squeezed her hand gently. A few platitudes sprang to mind, but he suspected they were both too tired to hear them. “It’s...it’s never been fair. Maferath betrayed Andraste, and the Maker turned his gaze from all of us because of one jealous man? Corypheus and his ilk, the magisters, they tear into the Fade and unleash the darkspawn, and the entire world suffers for it forever? This is a...a small thing. In the face of all that.”

“Small things are what matter the most!” Leliana snapped, rubbing angrily at her eyes with her free hand. “The Divine, she was good, devoted, the best chance that we had at a peaceful ending to the war, and the Maker let her die. My Warden, the kindest-” Her voice wavered, and she had to inhale sharply before continuing, “-and she is dying even now, rotting from within. Everyone at the Conclave, all their hopes and dreams, all those small things, and the Maker could find no mercy for any of them? For you? Are we all just insignificant, then?”

He was woefully unprepared to answer those kinds of questions, or even give her some kind of reassurance. All he could manage was, “I’m not sure I warrant comparison to the Divine, even as an example.”

Leliana just shook her head. “I wish...I wish that you could have known her the way I did. I wish she could see all the good we’re doing. I wish that you-”

Then her voice broke, and she squeezed Cullen’s hand as if she could will him to stay in this world if she only held on tight enough. He squeezed back, a reassurance that he was still here, and they sat in silence until Cullen drifted back to sleep.

Not all of his late-night visitors were so welcome. Later (he wasn’t sure how much later. Time was a strange, painful blur), he heard the creak of boots on the ladder. But he did not fully awaken until he heard a familiar voice.

“Commander.”   


Cullen did not especially want to open his eyes, but it seemed unwise to leave himself vulnerable in Pavus’ presence. So he cracked his eyelids and stared at the blood mage who had come up his ladder entirely uninvited. “Leave.”

“Rather dark in here,” Pavus observed, irritating even in the presence of the dying. Fitting enough for a necromancer. “I’d have thought they would at least keep a fire going. Is that--you have a  _ hole  _ in your roof.”

“Red Templars have excellent night vision.” Cullen glared at him, not in the mood for niceties of any kind. “I’m sure the Inquisitor mentioned that.”

“But you aren’t a Red Templar,” Pavus said, tearing his gaze away from the ceiling. He lingered by the bookcase in the far corner of the room, not coming any closer to the bed. Cullen was grateful for that. “Not yet.”

“No. I’ll soon be a corpse, though.”   


“Trevelyan mentioned you weren’t a fan of his idea of cheating death through blood magic,” Pavus said. “I can’t say I was surprised. You’ve always struck me as a steadfast one.”

“Then why are you up here?” A cough rattled its way through Cullen’s chest, the motion setting his nerves on fire with scratchy pain.   


Pavus stared at him for a silent moment, and then grabbed a chair from the small table and pulled it over to the bedside. He still did not sit especially close, but he was no longer all the way across the room. His expression was serious in a way Cullen wasn’t used to.

“Initially, when Solas explained the existence of the ritual, Maxwell wanted to do it immediately, before you grew any sicker,” Dorian said. “Solas and I both objected. It would be easier on the caster and safer for you if you knew what was going on. And were able to consent, of course.”

“I’m not  _ going  _ to consent,” Cullen snarled, “so you can-”

“May I finish speaking?” But Pavus said it politely, as interruptions went. Certainly more politely than he usually spoke. At a tired nod from Cullen, he continued. “Vivienne was against the plan from the beginning, as you well know, and has focused her energies on the spell to awaken you and slow your corruption a few days. She has bought you very precious time, and I imagine you’re grateful for it, and for the chance to conclude your affairs as best you can.”   


“And?”

“And she has opened the door to have this conversation with you, the one we’re having now.” Pavus crossed a leg over his knee. “How thoroughly did Maxwell explain the ritual?”

“He tried to couch it in very neutral language, if that’s what you’re asking,” Cullen sneered. “He called it a ‘connection.’ A ‘bond.’ An ‘ancient elven rite,’ like I’m some starry-eyed fool who thinks licking an old cairn will bring me good luck.”

“Is that something they  _ do  _ in rural Ferelden?” Pavus looked briefly delighted.

“All of Ferelden is rural and don’t change the subject.” Cullen’s lips drew back over gums that were starting to recede. “Blood magic isn’t used for gentle suggestion. It’s used for enslavement.”   


“I could debate the idea, academically,” Pavus said, smoothing his fingers across his mustache. “Except you’re actively dying, and quite correct in this case.”   


He reached into the small satchel by his side and withdrew a sheaf of loose paper. The papers were well-thumbed and covered in stray inkmarks, clearly scratch paper. A series of glyphs and runes (with what looked like a crossed-out list of lunch ideas in the left corner) occupied the first page.

“Solas sketched out the symbols the ancient elves used to anchor their power, their intent. But in the end, we settled on translating the meaning behind the symbols into the more modern system. It’s easier to create a mental foothold that way,” Dorian explained.

Cullen was only half listening. He stared down at the glyphs and runes sketched on the page. He was no mage, but he’d spent countless hours leaning against the wall and overseeing Circle classes, and countless more hours being taught the signs and tricks of maleficarum. But even if he had never been a Templar at all, even if he had just been some poor idiot who had wandered into Kinloch Hold on the wrong day, he would have recognized some of them anywhere. They looked different, of course, when they were sketched on paper instead of drawn on a wall in blood.   


A glyph of binding, for keeping him trapped and still.

A rune of submission, to chip away at his mental defenses and make him malleable, easy to manipulate.   


A glyph of distraction, to keep him scatterbrained and unable to focus, easily suggestible.

A rune of ownership, to mark him as a possession.

And more that he didn’t recognize, that he hadn’t seen before or hadn’t been able to identify in Kinloch. These were meant to be used on him. Cullen felt nausea rise in his throat, sharp and sudden, and had to put the papers aside to focus on not vomiting.   


When he’d gathered himself, he asked,“Why are you showing me these?”

“You know what they mean,” Pavus said. It was not a question, so much as a confirmation of what he suspected.   


“If I saw these in an enchanter’s papers, I would have the Circle locked down out of fear they were holding someone prisoner in a secret basement room, yes.”

Pavus reached out and took the sheaf back. “Maxwell is convinced that if he can just suggest a soft enough version of the ritual, you’ll agree to it. He keeps trying to find the right words: a connection, a bond, an ancient elven rite, as you said. He’s driving poor Solas mad with it. But I suspected, and now I know, that you’re completely aware of the mechanics of the ritual and what it will entail for you.”

“Which is why I’m not doing it.” He could feel weariness tugging at him again. He couldn’t stay awake for much longer than an hour anymore.   


“So the talk I want to have is different.” Pavus uncrossed his leg and stood up, then knelt at the side of the bed despite Cullen’s clear discomfort with it. It put them at eye level, and Pavus’ expression was solemn, gentle in a way that was strange and surprising.

“...I won’t hurt you, Commander. Cullen.”

“Besides the plan to, oh, what did it translate to? ‘Reforge’ my body and mind?”

Pavus sighed. “Yes, it’s not overly subtle, is it? Listen, I’m not any more enthused than you are by the idea of having a sudden, intimate mental bond that I will never be able to escape. The fact that I’ll be the one holding the leash doesn’t mean I won’t still be attached to it.”

“Looking to the Qunari for ideas, are we?” Apparently, his impending death was making him downright rude.

Pavus made an irritated sound. “Hilarious. You know what I mean. But if we talk about this now, if we work out what we’d like this ‘bond’ to look like, it doesn’t need to be a chaotic jumble during the ritual, and that can make it so much more bearable for us both. It’s only during the initial ‘reforging’ that you are...malleable, either body or mind.”   


“No.”

“For-”

“Pavus, listen to me.” Cullen took a breath to steady himself. “I--I genuinely do appreciate what you’re trying to do here, assuming it’s sincere, which Maxwell would want me to. But I don’t trust  _ anyone  _ with that kind of power over another person. Not you, not me. Not Cassandra or Maxwell, not Solas or Sera, nobody. It’s not a question making me comfortable with it, because I never will be. Even if it wasn’t a blood magic ritual, even if we could do it without a single drop being spilled, I wouldn’t say yes to it. Do you understand?”   


“Quite a paranoia you have there,” Pavus said. But it was without any real bite, and his grey eyes studied Cullen seriously.

“Would you trust someone to--to rearrange you that way?”

Pavus flinched suddenly, then swallowed and looked away. “No. I suppose I wouldn’t either.”

He stood abruptly, dusting his clothes off and giving Cullen a nod. “Well then. I shall tell Maxwell that you failed to yield to my charms, considerable as they are. And Cullen?”

Cullen tilted his head.

Pavus offered an unusually sincere smile. “Andraste speed you to the Maker’s side.”

“Take care of the Inquisitor for me. Tell him to listen more to Cassandra.”

“Ha! I’ll do no such thing.”

And then Pavus was gone as abruptly as he’d come, disappearing down the ladder.

Cullen lasted another seven hours. Then, in the middle of a conversation with one of the healers, he felt himself begin to slip.

“Commander?”

Blackness edged into his vision, and Cullen had time to think about how cold he felt. Then he thought nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been fun, everyone, thanks for coming out to read this fic! Be sure to tip your waitress on the way out!
> 
> Heh. Obviously, chapter 4 will arrive right on schedule. The whispers Cullen hears as he is transforming are taken from the Inquisition codex 'Whispers Written in Red Lyrium.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, things are getting saucy! Just FYI, the dub-con tag is especially applicable for this chapter, so keep it in mind.

When he regained awareness, he was not in his tower. He was in Skyhold’s gardens, sitting across a table from Dorian Pavus. The gardens were empty aside from them; little wonder, considering every bush and tree appeared to be dying or dead. Even the grass was brown and brittle.

“Commander?” Pavus asked, tilting his head.

“The garden…” Cullen murmured. It didn’t make sense. The stone beneath them was swept clean and the simple wooden chairs and table were new, even gleaming slightly with varnish. Skyhold was still inhabited, clearly. Why had the garden been allowed to decay so badly? “This is…”

“Are you with me, Cullen?” Pavus asked, leaning forward. “Cullen?”

“This isn’t real,” Cullen said, and just like that, the eerie greenish light of the Fade became obvious. There was no sun in the sky, no single source of light. Illumination came from everywhere and nowhere at once. When Cullen looked up towards the stairs, he saw that the landing simply ended, a blank wall instead of a door. “This is a dream. The Fade.”

“Ah, that’s right,” Pavus confirmed with a nod. “It must be odd for a _soporati_, being conscious of your time in the Fade. Forgive me, I didn’t realize that’s why you were looking so wild-eyed.”

“Why am I--how am I--” Cullen stared at Pavus, eyes narrowing. “The ritual.”

Pavus held up his hands. Even in the Fade, they gleamed with rings. “Easy. This chit-chat is hardly part of any ritual. You are...not well. You fell unconscious a half hour ago. Your pulse is dropping. The healers think that this is likely the end.”

“And so my dying dream is to sit with you in a dead garden?” Cullen asked skeptically.

“Hardly. Solas is creating this...dreamscape, I suppose, in the Fade. You are technically asleep, soon to be dead. Maxwell asked me to come. Commanded it, really.”

“The answer is still no.” Cullen crossed his arms.

“Are you certain?” Pavus raised an eyebrow. “Because it really is now or never, I suspect. You looked like a corpse when I saw you last.”

“I’ll be a corpse when you see me again.” Cullen let out a slow breath. Saying the words out loud made it more real, real in a way the strange Fade-light didn’t. “The answer is no. But...thank you, Pavus. For--well, you were kind when you didn’t have to be.”

Pavus grimaced and looked briefly to the side. Perhaps he was as uncomfortable with overt displays of emotion as Cullen tended to be. But then he took a deep breath, seemed to rally himself, and nodded. “I appreciate that, Commander.”

“Tell the Inquisitor that it was an honor to serve.”

Pavus smiled, his expression sad and almost pained. “I shall.” He took another deep breath and then abruptly slapped the top of the table lightly in forced merriment. “So! What shall we do, while you get on with dying? Any juicy final confessions? Oooh, do you have a secret fortune buried under a tree somewhere?”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “For the Maker’s sake, mage, I’m _dead_, can we not simply be solemn and morbid? Is this how you do your necromancy? Annoy the spirits into doing you a favor?”

“Well, look who’s uncovering all my secrets before his heart even stops beating,” Pavus laughed. He toyed lightly with the dark green vines that wrapped around the trellis next to them. Even in the Fade, the air was thick with the scent of flowers. The light filtered down through the leaves, making the green seem almost natural. “May I ask you something? Purely to satisfy my curiosity?”

“Fine.” The rich leather padding on the chair creaked as Cullen leaned back, crossing his arms.

“Our Inquisitor tells me that he used to bat his eyelashes at you and offer all sorts of little compliments, back before I joined our merry band.” Pavus swirled the deep red wine in his glass with a smirk. “Which sounds adorable, can I add? Like watching two puppies try to jump onto a high step.”

(Had...had Pavus always had wine? The garden, had it...)

“This is what you’d like to talk about during my last minutes alive?” Cullen asked, incredulous. It was hard to be irritable, when the late afternoon sunlight drifting in through the windows was so golden and warm, but Pavus had a talent for getting under his skin.

“I’m just curious!” Pavus laughed. He stretched his legs out along the plush silk couch, apparently uncaring if his boots stained the fabric. (When had they moved inside? They had always been inside, hadn’t they?) “It made me wonder: if I had been Dorea Pavus, the full-bosomed sorceress, would you have been more tempted by Trevelyan’s plan?”

“Unbelievable.” Cullen shook his head and took a drink from his own glass, the taste of mead sweet on his tongue. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“Oh, come now.” Pavus nudged him with his shoulder. They were side by side, sitting against the headboard of massive four poster bed...where they had always been sitting. Hadn’t they? “It’s an honest question!”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “I turned Maxwell down because he reminded me of my younger brother. He still reminds me of my younger brother. He could have a rift to the Fade between his legs and it would still matter less than the fact that he reminds me of my brother.”

Oof, perhaps he’d sipped a bit too much of this mead, if he was just babbling things like that. Except...except, wait, no, this wasn’t--

“So him being a man wasn’t a factor?” Pavus’s breath was warm against his face, his lips brushing Cullen’s cheek. “Not at all?”

“N-no.” Cullen took another sip of mead, only to find his cup was empty. He squinted in confusion. “Pavus, I think-”

“I think you should call me Dorian,” Dorian said, reaching up to cup the back of Cullen’s neck. “Answer my question, Commander.”

“Wha--oh.” Cullen would have shaken his head, but Dorian was tracing the shell of his ear. “No, I d-don’t really have any preference about th-that sort of thing.”

“Oh good.” Dorian smiled, and Cullen smiled dazedly back at him. “That will make this much easier.”

Then Cullen was being yanked forward into the most thorough kiss he’d experienced in...well, ever.

Dorian was _good_ at kissing, his lips a pleasurable and constant assault against Cullen’s mouth. It was so sudden, and so enjoyable, that Cullen really had no choice at all but to lean into it and melt against the warmth of the other man’s body. The cup of mead slipped from his hand, or perhaps just disappeared entirely. Then his arms were around Dorian’s shoulders to pull him closer.

It was only when he broke away to gasp for breath that Cullen had a moment to think: _Wait_.

And then say aloud, “Wait.”

Dorian leaned in to kiss him again, and oh, oh the gentle tug of his teeth was lovely, but-

“This isn’t--” Cullen drove a thumbnail into soft pad of his own finger, digging as hard as he could. The jolt of pain was muted, but real enough to pull him back just a little. “The ritual. You’re doing the ritual.”

“Oh, you clever thing,” Dorian said ruefully. He smiled, looking pained. “As I said: Maxwell commanded me.”

Cullen shook his head, dread starting to send cold little shivers of reality through the warm haze. “No, I said no, I’m not going to do it!”

“Don’t be afraid,” Dorian murmured against Cullen’s cheek, his voice pitched low and soothing. Then he was rolling, pinning Cullen on his back against the bed and settling on top of his thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’re safe here with me. Don’t be afraid, all right? I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

And just as suddenly as the terror had begun to slither in, it was gone completely. Cullen was still aware intellectually that he should be afraid, but it was like knowing that he ought to be hungry when he just wasn’t.

“There.” Dorian smiled down at him, looking more sincere than Cullen could ever recall seeing him. “We’re in this together now, you and I. An attractive team, yes?”

The room around them was entirely foreign to Cullen, the walls an unfamiliar stone and the wood of the bedposts a dark, unknown species. But at least reality had stopped quietly shifting every time he blinked. The coverlets beneath them were silk, a warm reddish-orange, and Dorian was a reassuringly solid weight.

Tentatively, he tried to push Dorian off of him anyway. Magic bindings sprang into existence, glowing faintly purple. They kept his hands pinned to the bedspread at waist level, and Cullen could feel his ankles similarly pinned. The actual force was feather-light, a mere whisper against his skin, but no amount of straining could move them.

He could feel what should have been terror battering at the hinges of his mind, unable to get through. It was a deeply unsettling feeling. “I...I feel strange. Dorian, I don’t-”

Dorian leaned down to kiss him again. “I know. I know.” He ran a hand gently through Cullen’s hair. “Just...focus on the pleasure, all right? Focus on all the ways I’ll make you feel good.”

Then he proceeded to follow through on that promise, his hands roaming across Cullen’s body like he was a sculptor working on clay. When had they both become naked? Did it matter? Or was the only thing that mattered the blazing heat of skin against skin, of Dorian’s hands tracing paths up and down his chest, his thighs, scratching lightly with his nails and making Cullen moan raggedly? Dorian was like a work of art himself, leaner but sharply defined, his darker skin smooth and nearly flawless compared to Cullen’s patchwork of scars.

And he was gentle, gentle in a way that Cullen would never have expected from a blood mage or a magister. As he stroked light, teasing touches over Cullen’s skin, his cock, his lips, the air itself seemed to grow heavy. Cullen’s blood heated, his thoughts slowed, centered only around Dorian’s hands on him. How long had it been since anyone touched him this way? Years, at least.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured breathlessly, apropos of nothing, as Dorian slid a thumb through the trail of hair starting below Cullen's navel.

That made Dorian smile, and his smile only grew as he wrapped a hand around Cullen’s half-hard cock and Cullen made a truly pitiful whimpering sound. “Why, thank you. You’re quite lovely yourself.”

The restraints (_magic, magic, **magic**,_ some part of his mind screamed in warning, but it didn’t matter at all) holding his wrists moved, tugging his arms up so they rested above his head. It bared him completely to Dorian, but all he could think was that it gave the other man more space to touch him, to press against him like the most pleasant inferno. When Dorian leaned down for another kiss, Cullen craned his neck to return it, moaning against his lips brokenly.

“Please,” he gasped, rocking up against Dorian’s grip, “please, please!”

"You'd agree to anything right now, wouldn't you?" Dorian purred, nuzzling against his cheek. "I could make you swear on the Maker to let me lead you through Skyhold on a leash and you would just whine and ask for more of the same."

Sure enough, the words tore a helpless whine from Cullen, his cock jerking. "Please, please, I'll do it, I want it, oh please-"

Dorian shuddered, then shook his head hard, like a horse trying to shake off a fly. "_Oh_. I had forgotten...they warned me that what I said would have power. I didn't expect quite this much."

Cullen wriggled desperately, trying to rut against Dorian's hip. "Please, I swear on my honor and my name and the Maker's bride, I'll wear your collar and bark for you, just don't stop touching me!"

“Shh, shh, pretty Templar.” Dorian ran his fingers along Cullen’s jaw, eyes heavy with lust. “Just...just go ahead and ignore that statement, about agreeing to anything and the leash, will you? Do that.”

It was suddenly a bit easier to think, even if not by much. Cullen nodded, panting, feeling inflamed. He forced out, “I-it’s hard.”

“Yes, I’d noticed.”

Even addled by Maker-only-knew what kind of ancient magic, Cullen could still roll his eyes and groan.

Dorian laughed and kissed his cheek, affectionate. “All right, all right, I won’t tease.”

“Hard to think,” Cullen managed to articulate, even as he leaned in helplessly to try and capture Dorian’s lips in another kiss. “I can’t--can’t focus on anything besides--Maker, you’re so beautiful, please kiss me again.”

Dorian smiled at him fondly, stroked his cheek. “Let me check on something. Just a moment.”

His eyes closed, and he went perfectly still atop Cullen. The air itself seemed to still as well, every molecule motionless. Cullen had just enough time to wonder hazily what was going on before everything returned to normal, Dorian’s eyes opening and his smile returning.

“Everything’s going well,” he said, stroking a reassuring hand through Cullen’s hair. “You’ll be free of the red lyrium in no time, back to perfect health.”

Cullen leaned into the touch, smiling tentatively up at Dorian, his mind full of warm fog. “Do you promise?”

“I do,” Dorian said, nodding. “We’re far enough along that it cannot be reversed now. I’ve marked several of the runes and glyphs being used the mortal world. When I give the word, you will stop feeling the effects of them, and we can have a slightly more coherent conversation, all right?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Aaand...now.”

Just like that, what must have a baker’s dozen spells for mind control fell away abruptly, leaving Cullen keenly aware of what was going on. Keenly aware, and keenly furious. Through gritted teeth, he snarled, “Unbind my hands so that I can choke you.”

“Commander, I had no idea your tastes ranged in that direction!” Dorian was as smug as ever, riding out Cullen’s thrashing like a man atop a horse he knew would not actually buck.

Sucking in air, Cullen took stock of the situation. The magic binding him kept him as firmly tied to the bed as any restraints. His mind was clear of haze of lust and warmth that had kept him from stringing two thoughts together, but his ability to feel (extremely warranted) fear was still being held back. He was still not fully in control of himself and perhaps would never be again. Rage, though, was still available, and he was absolutely flooded with it.

His heart pounding in his chest, Cullen snarled, “Let me up! How dare you! Bastard!”

Dorian sighed. “And there he is, all the sweetness long gone. We are in the midst of the ritual-”

“_No_!”

“-and it is happening, regardless of your feelings on the matter.” Dorian crossed his arms, looking comically irritable for a man who was still sitting naked on top of someone. “So rather than scream at each other, we can use this time to shape what our connection will look like.”

“Connection?!” Cullen’s laugh was borderline hysterical. “Will we be having this discussion before or after you _rape_ me, mage?”

Dorian scowled. “Believe it or not, Rutherford, things wouldn’t have taken a turn for the carnal if you hadn’t been just as interested in it. I’m hardly going to-”

“To what, force me into something against my will?!” He knew intellectually that he should stop needling the mage and trying to make him angry. But with all his fear held back and impossible to access, there was no urgency to the knowledge. Instead, there was only fury and indignity. How _dare_ Pavus do this do him? How dare the Inquisitor, his _friend_, allow it to happen? “And you claim you’re so fucking different than any other magister!”

“Any other magister wouldn’t have thought twice about this ritual,” Dorian said, his voice low, “so perhaps you ought to-”

“But you’re still doing it! And doing it happily! Maleficar, _disgusting_-

“You need to-”

“For all your posturing, you’re no better than any other blood mage and I will tell everyone what you are-”

"Shut up!" Dorian snarled, eyes blazing with fury.

Cullen's jaw clamped closed, and no amount of effort would wrench it open. Furious, he glared at Dorian.

Dorian, who was staring down with an unkind gleam in his eye. “Ah. That’s right.”

He sat back, smoothing his hands through his hair, and sneered, “Remember, when you’re whining about this later, that I did try to give you a better option. And like any barbarian, you threw my charity back in my face. Not to worry, though. I can fix that attitude.”

His eyes glinted as he leaned forward. The motion put them face to face, Dorian looming over him completely. His fingers were warm, almost hot, as they meandered across the curve of Cullen’s biceps and the sensitive skin of his inner arms before wrapping around his wrists.

“Look at these muscles,” Dorian purred. “You must be quite a treat, all oiled up.”

Cullen couldn’t speak, but he could snap his teeth angrily to show his opinion on that.

Dorian laughed softly, the sound tickling Cullen’s ear as he leaned closer. “Ah, big southern Chantry boy, so strong from a lifetime of swinging a sword and slapping around uppity mages. And yet…” He tightened his grip on Cullen’s wrists, just slightly, “I hold onto you and you’re completely helpless, aren’t you?”

Bafflement was nearly enough to cut through Cullen’s fury. Nearly.

“All I have to do is wrap a hand around your wrist or ankle, and you’re weak as a kitten,” Dorian continued. He made some slight movement that Cullen couldn’t see, and the magical bonds fell away from Cullen’s limbs. Cullen surged forward, hands out, planning to break Dorian’s neck if he could-

Except he didn’t. With one hand, with a grip that wasn’t even tight enough to bruise, Dorian was holding both of Cullen’s wrists over his head. It didn’t matter how much Cullen tried to thrash, how much adrenaline flooded him, the only movements he actually managed were pitiful little squirms. He raised a leg, tried to hook a knee around Dorian to throw him off, but all he managed to do was weakly knock his thigh against Dorian’s body. It wasn’t like being drugged; it was more like all of his muscles had suddenly forgotten how to put up anything but the most token effort. Movements that began as full-fledged attacks ended in wriggles.

Cullen stared wide-eyed, nostrils flaring and teeth bared. This wasn’t good. Were he able to feel fear, he’d be blind with it. He continued his struggles, putting everything he had into them even though Dorian was quite literally holding him down with one hand.

The smile spreading across the mage’s face was downright predatory. “Something the matter, Commander? Here, I’ll even let you have a hand loose.”

He relaxed his grip just enough for Cullen to work one hand free, and that should have been a fatal mistake. There was a myriad of things that Cullen could do one-handed, a long list of targets: the eyes, the lips, the delicate cartilage of the ears or nose. A heel strike to his throat, a punch to the solar plexus, even a quick shot to one of his organs. Cullen reared a hand back to strike, and--

His fist thudded pitifully against Dorian’s pectoral. Not even Cullen’s knuckles, but the fleshy, outer edge of his hand. He tried to adjust his angle, to strike again, but each attempt resulted in him pounding weakly on Dorian’s chest like a terrified maiden about to be ravished in some cheap Orlesian stage show. Aiming for his face just resulted in Cullen pawing helplessly at his jaw, unable to even get a firm grip.

“Delightful!” Dorian laughed, recapturing Cullen’s hand easily and pinning his wrists again. “Just delightful. You like this, don’t you? Love it, in fact. Being pinned down and made helpless by me. That’s all you Templars really need, isn’t it, a magister to come put you in your place? I’m every one of your dirty little fantasies come to life.”

That wasn’t true, was it? It...it hadn’t been, and yet Cullen was harder than he could ever remember being in his life, leaking helplessly against his own stomach. The weakness he felt as Dorian held him down was delicious, and he was panting for breath, chewing helplessly on his own lip. He could feel Dorian’s eyes on him, drinking in every humiliating blush and tremble, and that just made him harder.

“Cat got your tongue?”

Cullen opened his eyes, and the sight of Dorian above him, smug and perfectly in control, sent another bolt of helpless lust shooting through him. Lips trembling, he managed to mouth, ‘Can’t talk’ and hoped Dorian would understand the problem.

The smile fell from Dorian’s face for a moment. “Oh. Oh, I hadn’t--you can speak, Cullen.”

The moan that tore itself from Cullen’s throat was desperate, pained, and followed by a series of smaller, pitiful grunts as he tried to arch up against Dorian to get some kind of friction. “Ah, ah, ah, s-stop!”

That made Dorian chuckle. “You don’t actually sound like you want me to stop.” The mage brushed his stomach against Cullen’s cock, his grin coming back as Cullen wailed at the contact. “Mmm, the sounds you make. Who’d have guessed it, from the frigid commander?”

Baring his teeth, Cullen forced himself to close his mouth, to stop panting like a whore putting on a show. The venom in his words was thick, even though he was choked with lust. “Everyone’s f-frigid around you, Tevinter, for good reason.”

The grip on his wrists tightened, as did Dorian’s expression. “Still so mouthy. Someone less creative might order you silent again, but I have something much more fun in mind.” He leaned down again, his mustache tickling the skin of Cullen’s ear as he murmured, “I want you vocal when I’m touching you. Every little moan or whimper or scream I wring out of you, you won’t hold them back at all.”

As he spoke, he ran a hand up Cullen’s chest, rolling a nipple between the fingers of his free hand. An “oh, oh, oh!” spilled from Cullen’s lips before he could even think of stopping it. He could feel Dorian smiling against his cheek.

“Ah, he likes that, does he?” He twisted Cullen’s nipple again, sweat slicking the movements, and it was like every word he spoke was lighting some new, glorious fire under Cullen’s skin. Throughout it all, Cullen moaned helplessly, his cock twitching madly. “What you really want is to beg me to make you feel good.”

“Please!” Cullen gasped brokenly, the word clawing up from his gut. “Please, Maker, I need…”

He trailed off as Dorian obligingly nibbled on his ear, losing track of anything but that new source of sensation until the mage asked:

“What do you need?”

A litany of pleas gathered at the tip of his tongue. He felt so desperate for Dorian to touch him properly that he was close to screaming. It would have been better, safer, wiser to simply beg the magister to get on with things and give them both some release. But Cullen’s sense of dignity, not to mention anger, had not been entirely blotted out. Without even twinges of fear to warn him off, he took a deep breath and tilted his chin back so that he could look Dorian in the eye.

Then he spat at him, the small gob hitting Dorian square in the cheek. Cullen hissed, “I need you to get out of my head!”

Dorian flinched as the saliva hit him, raising the corner of his lip in a snarl. And then he _laughed_. "All right then, pretty Templar. I'll move things along."

He raised his hand and snapped, causing the scent of the air to change subtly. It was more electric, ozone-scented, like lightning magic gathering. Dorian stretched himself out along Cullen's torso again, as languid as a cat in a patch of sun. The lower curve of his ass tucked neatly against Cullen's painfully erect cock, and Dorian _wriggled_. He was as sensual as any dancer and the drag of his skin against Cullen’s, a thousand points of wonderful friction, was maddening.

"Let me explain to you how things will be when we wake up, Cullen," Dorian purred. "You'll be hale and hearty and I'm going to fuck you whenever I want to."

Cullen's thighs slid open, his head falling back as he panted.

"At my word, you'll bend yourself over your desk or the War Table or Trevelyan’s ridiculous throne and beg for my cock, like one of your mabari bitches in heat."

The words, the images they provoked, they all hit Cullen so hard that he nearly came right there. It was building, he could feel it, his balls drawing up as Dorian continued growling filth into his ear.

"For fun some days, I'll get your lovely prick nice and hard and ride you like a stallion for hours.” Dorian arched back against his cock, grinning at the broken whimper that Cullen couldn’t hold back. “You'll remain ready for me the whole time, a soldier at attention, because from now on you come with my permission. Only my permission."

And just like that, his orgasm was halted as surely as if someone had grabbed the base of his cock and squeezed down tight. Cullen sobbed out an incoherent curse and slammed his head back against the pillow in frustration.

“And the haughtier you act towards me, the more you sneer and denounce me as a filthy Tevinter blood mage, the more you’ll be able to think of nothing besides how much you want to sink to your knees and be my sweet little pet, until that’s all you are.”

Maker, Cullen could imagine it, couldn’t help _but_ imagine it, the images flickering through his mind in a cascade. Himself, wide-eyed and empty-headed of anything but lust, gazing up at Dorian like the entire world revolved around him. It made him writhe even as he wanted to kick and bite.

“Does it frighten you, how much you want it all?” Dorian laughed.

Cullen shook his head, unable to articulate a useful answer besides a moaned, “N-no.”

“Tsk, so stubborn.”

He shook his head again and gasped out, “C-can’t be afraid.”

Dorian’s expression went from confused to startled to serious remarkably quickly. “What do you mean, you can’t be afraid?”

He let out a low whine, trying to rut against the impossibly soft curve of Dorian's ass. Dorian responded by inching out of range and putting more pressure on Cullen's hips to hold him down.

Frustrated, Cullen whined again and finally babbled, “You said, at the start, n-not to be afraid, that I was safe and you wouldn’t hurt me, and so it’s like I can’t--my mind just c-can’t be afraid even when I should be, like right now, so p-please just fuck me, please!”

Dorian paled, a distinctly sick look passing over his face. “Are you saying that through all this, you haven’t been able to, what, even be a small bit frightened?”

Cullen shook his head, frantic, still trying to force Dorian down onto him. “Nngh, no!”

But Dorian had actually gone half-soft against him, his pallor still several shades lighter than usual. He moved off of him abruptly, pulling a squirming, whining Cullen into his lap so that they were chest to chest. In a very serious voice, so at odds with the seductive purr he’d been using, he said, “Listen to me very carefully. You...you are safe here with me. I won’t hurt you. But if...you can feel whatever fear you would normally be experiencing.”

It was like a dam bursting suddenly, a wave of emotions hitting Cullen with a force that was practically physical. The world fractured around them, the warm little room gone entirely. In its place was the blood-slick stone floor of the Circle tower, the air thick with the foul copper scent of violent death. It morphed randomly into the dirt and cobblestones of the Gallows’ courtyard, no less bloody, but the wind was scented with thick ash and the heat of flames. Then back to Kinloch, to purple light, and bodies piled everywhere, indistinct masses of viscera, the smell of death and rot and shit-

-back to Kirkwall, screams, screams, a song that wasn’t a song from a sword that wasn’t a sword-

-Kinloch, screams, screams, Uldred speaking with two voices, “What a good little Templar”-

-apprentices piled like lumber, life leaking out of them, Maker he would never be free of this, where was he, had he done this?-

-blood, everywhere, the walls the floors the ceiling on him in him why wouldn’t they just let him die-

-on and on and on, a whirl that left him gagging, and it was only after a few moments that he was able to hear Dorian murmuring, “I’m here, you’re safe here with me. I’m right here and I won’t hurt you.”

He kept up the mantra, very specific in his phrasing, and Cullen watched in numb confusion as the stone floor of Kinloch Hold faded back into expensive hardwoods and the air became thick with the scent of flowers rather than flame. It was only when the little room was entirely solid around them that he realized Dorian was holding him, Cullen’s head pressed to his cheek.

“I’m afraid,” Cullen murmured stupidly, feeling like he had just been drawn and quartered. All he could do was stare rigidly at the corner where Uldred had been standing, grinning as if he wasn’t ten years dead.

“Yes, I--I see that.” Pressed together as they were, Cullen could feel the movement when Dorian swallowed. He cupped Cullen’s cheek, tilted his head so they were facing each other. “What was all of that?”

Cullen shook his head rapidly. He could count on one hand the number of people he had explained Kinloch to, and while Kirkwall was a comparatively easier story, both sat in his gut like stones weighing down a body. The idea of talking about them now, of all times, was unthinkable. He cringed at the thought that he might have to, and the air thickened with the smell of fire again.

Dorian noticed, grimacing. “All right, no, you don’t have to tell me if you’d prefer not to. I--”

There was a rumbling sound, like an earthquake without any accompanying vibrations, and Dorian’s expression of exasperation would have been funny in any other circumstance. “_Now_? Right now?!”

“What’s happening?” Cullen asked, the sheer whiplash of so many conflicting emotions making him feel like someone had smashed his head with a cobblestone. “What is-”

“The ritual is ending.” Dorian was speaking quickly. “_Venhedis!_ I don’t have time--” He closed his eyes, thinking hard, and then snapped out, “Cullen! If I’m ever doing something to you that you don’t like, for whatever reason, you will tell me. You don’t have to tell me why you don’t like it, you don’t have to say it out loud, but make me aware of it as soon as you can. Do you understand?”

Cullen blinked, still baffled and angry and deeply rattled. “Yes? Wh-”

He was gasping, gasping like he’d been holding his breath for too long and his lungs were burning for air. Everything was dark, the fading afterimages of some kind of bright lights rapidly dying in the air above them. Someone was speaking. Someone was pounding on a door.

Panicked, Cullen tried to sit up, but his limbs were a useless, uncoordinated tangle. He managed to flop onto his side and realized he was lying on the floor, in the middle of a large glyph that had been drawn on the stone in--

\--in blood.

He was awake. He was alive. And he was furious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we can all agree that the ritual went well :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmm whatcha say, mmm that you only meant well? Well. of course you did~

Several things happened in rapid succession.

Next to him, Dorian groaned and sat up, his voice rough as he said, “Inquisitor, we have a slight proble-”

Then he trailed off, staring down at Cullen as if he’d just grown tentacles.

A few feet from them, outside the edge of the glyph, the Inquisitor stepped forward. He was also staring wide-eyed at Cullen. In the few seconds Cullen had to observe, he saw that Maxwell was unusually pale, with a thick bandage wrapped around the middle of his left arm.

Behind Maxwell, Solas completed the trio of people staring goggle-eyed at Cullen. He had a similar bandage around his arm, and a panicked expression on his face. 

Then door on the far right wall burst off the hinges, courtesy of a well-placed kick from Blackwall. He entered the room shield-first. Behind him was Sera, bow at full draw, and Vivienne, staff out and barrier shimmering into place. All three wore looks somewhere between horror and disbelief at the extremely sinister tableau in front of them.

There was quite a lot of screaming, and Sera was inventive as ever with her profanity. Cullen was still too disoriented to sit up properly, but he managed to scuttle away from Dorian like a crab missing a few legs. He had never been so relieved to have a magical barrier close around him as he was when Vivienne knelt by his side.

“He actually went through with it,” Vivienne murmured, her narrowed eyes raking up and down Cullen’s bare torso. 

Under other circumstances, he would have felt deeply awkward about the formidable First Enchanter of Montsimmard seeing him shirtless. At this point, he was just glad he was wearing trousers. Cullen’s voice was rattling whisper when he said, “He did. It worked. I think.”

“Oh, it worked.” Vivienne’s voice held a tightly-leashed anger. “I assume this is his handiwork, tattooed onto you?”

Startled, Cullen looked down at himself. It took a moment for his eyes to focus properly, but when they did, he was greeted by the sight of bare skin, a sigil drawn in blood on his chest, and nothing else out of the ordinary. “Tattooed?”

Vivienne raised an eyebrow. “You can’t see it?”

As they spoke, a shouted conversation was taking place between the rest of the group. 

“Arse-fucking blood magic, piss! Shitcock! Thought you were better than-”

“If you’d just put down the sword for a second, I can explain-”

“-thought Vivienne had lost her mind,  _ what  _ in the Maker’s name is-”

“-if we could avoid bloodshed, that-”

“-get that arrow out of my face, please-”

Cullen stared down at his chest again. “The sigil?”

Vivienne shook her head, her eyes tracing across Cullen’s torso with a professional sharpness. “Not the sigil.”

An absolutely deafening whistle seemed to vibrate the room, and the silence that followed it was pained. The Inquisitor lowered his fingers from his mouth and added, “One at a time, all right! I can explain everything!”

“What is there to explain, my dear?” Vivienne rose from her spot at Cullen’s side. He noted that her staff was still angled slightly towards Dorian. “Against the Commander’s wishes and my advice, you performed a blood magic ritual to bind him to a maleficar.” 

“Ah, have I graduated from ‘Tevinter rat’ to ‘maleficar’?” Dorian was also shirtless, a matching sigil drawn in blood across his stomach. He had dragged himself off the ground to lean against the wall near Maxwell. His gaze was continuously pulled back to Cullen, looking him up and down like he was an interesting piece of statuary. 

“Inquisitor, is this--is she telling the truth?” Blackwall asked. He was standing between Cullen’s little group and the Inquisitor’s, his shield lowered but not completely down. “Did you actually use  _ blood magic _ on the Commander?”

“Yes.” Cullen’s voice was even raspier when he spoke loudly enough to be heard by everyone. “Yes, he did. He had the Tevinter do it for him.”

Dorian mouthed ‘the Tevinter’ and rolled his eyes. Beside him, Maxwell’s expression was somewhere between angry and beseeching. “I did it to save his life! He was dying! This was the only way to reverse the red lyrium corruption!”

“Whose friggin’ blood is that smeared all over everything?!” Sera still had her bow at full draw. She was jittering with pent-up energy.

“Mine,” the Inquisitor said, holding up his bandaged arm. “And Solas’ as well. We didn’t hurt anyone to do this!”

“I beg to differ,” Cullen growled. He still didn’t quite have the strength to stand, settling for propping himself up on his elbows.

“Are you really foolish enough to think performing blood magic on someone is just a harmless bit of fun?” Vivienne snapped. She gestured to Cullen. “Especially when he wakes up looking like  _ this _ ?”

Maxwell grimaced. “Fine, yes, that mark-tattoo-thing is unexpected, but otherwise, Cullen is perfectly fine! He’s alive! The ritual was to heal him, not to-”

“ _ What _ mark?” Cullen interrupted, tired of being talked about like he wasn’t in the room.

“Er?”

“There’s nothing on me besides  _ your blood _ ,” he elaborated. 

The Inquisitor looked genuinely confused. “The...the huge snake?”

Cullen just glared and sent a glance towards ‘his’ group. Sera and Blackwall were staring at him, both of them clearly confused. Vivienne’s expression was harder to read.

“I don’t see anything but his muscley man-tits and the creepy blood writing,” Sera said, finally relaxing her archer’s stance and lowering the bow. Blackwall nodded in agreement.

“It’s only visible to mages,” Vivienne concluded. “The small bits of the Fade interwoven through it, those aren’t just decorative.”

“Ah.” Solas spoke for the first time since the shouting had stopped, stepping out from behind the Inquisitor’s shadow. “That would make sense. Like certain runes, the marks must only be visible to people who are particularly sensitive to the Fade. Mages, obviously, and likely spirits as well.”

“What did you do to me?!” Cullen snarled, wishing he had the strength to lunge across the room at Dorian. He forced himself to sit up, even while his muscles screamed in protest.

“I didn’t tattoo you!” Dorian snapped. 

Still grimacing, Maxwell said, “I-ignoring the marks for a minute, the ritual went exactly the way it was supposed to otherwise. Cullen is alive and healthy, and there’s no-”

Dorian cleared his throat. “Ahem. That’s what I was trying to tell you before the door exploded. The ritual did not go quite as planned.”

“Reverse it,” Cullen ordered, wobbling to a standing position. “Undo this, Inquisitor,  _ now _ .”

There was silence, and then Solas said, “It cannot be undone, Commander. The effects of the ritual are permanent.”

Blood roared in his ears, and Cullen felt as if the floor was tilting. Betrayal, fear, outrage, they all crowded his mind and blotted out any thoughts besides a frightened, animal-like desperation. “Undo it! Undo it or I will  _ leave _ , I swear on the Maker!”

Maxwell blanched, going even paler and making his freckles stand out starkly. “What? But you can’t!”

Cullen prepared to lunge for the Inquisitor, panic building in him. He felt like the walls themselves were closing in, and his breath was coming faster and faster as he readied himself to-

“Inquisitor,” Vivienne said, stepping between Cullen and Maxwell smoothly, “explain yourself and the situation to Blackwall and Sera. I will escort the Commander back to his quarters. When you’ve recovered from the effects of all the bloodletting, you can resume this with a clearer head.”

Maxwell, flustered, just nodded. Cullen actually growled when Vivienne looped her arm into his own and tugged him gently to the door. 

“Come along, Commander,” she said, completely unruffled by the wildness in Cullen’s eyes.

The urge to resist and jerk away was instinctive, but the need to be out of that room and away from Dorian was stronger. Cullen allowed himself to be led out the door, each step unsteady.

They were in the Undercroft, Cullen realized, in one of the small storage rooms that branched off from the main chamber. He could hear the distant roar of the waterfall, even through layers of stone. The walls and floor radiated cold, the mountain’s chill sunk deep into the rock of Skyhold, and he started to shiver. It made balance even more difficult.

“Here you are,” Vivienne said when they were halfway down the hall. She unlinked their arms and then handed him her staff. “Take care not to scuff it.”

He just stared at her, his mind a whirlwind of jittery, half-formed thoughts.

Vivienne sighed and added, “The staves make for useful walking sticks, when all else fails. Unless you would prefer I levitate you?”

That was enough to make him wrap a hand more firmly around the staff and grunt out, “No.”

Their pace was slow, with most of Cullen’s attention focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Vivienne’s staff was surprisingly heavy, embossed as it was with polished silver and moonstones. It was enough to keep him upright until they reached the main chamber of the Undercroft and Cullen could take several deep breaths of the clear night air. He was not confined, at least not physically. The reassurance helped steady his legs under him.

“Will you be able to make it up the stairs?” Vivienne asked, once Cullen had opened his eyes again.

“I think so.”

They did not speak again until they were on the main floor of Skyhold. It was late enough that there was no one else around, something for which Cullen was profoundly grateful. “Thank you.”

“If my ‘rescue’ had been successful, you would be dead right now.” Her voice wasn’t biting, though. It was just an observation.

“I was ready for that.” Cullen grimaced. “At least, I was as ready as anyone can be. I was expecting death, and instead, I’m-”

He shook his head, unsure what he even wanted to say. Bound to a blood mage? Betrayed and confused and furious? Like a stranger in his own skin? All were true, and he lacked the words to explain the depth of any of them.

“Pavus said that the ritual did not go as planned.” Vivienne held the door of the great hall open for him, her gaze missing nothing as she looked him up and down. “What exactly can you remember?”

_ "At my word, you'll bend yourself over your desk or the War Table or Trevelyan’s ridiculous throne and beg for my cock, like one of your mabari bitches in heat." _

Cullen shook his head. “I can’t.”

“You can’t remember anything?”

“No, I just...Maker, I can’t talk about…”

Vivienne stopped him, her grip surprisingly strong. “You’re  _ unable  _ to talk about it?”

He understood the nature of her question. “No, I’m n-not forbidden to talk about it. It’s just…”

She didn’t let go of his arm. Her expression was intent, probing. 

Cullen grimaced. “It’s embarrassing. Humiliating.”

Vivienne tilted her head, thinking. “Carnal in nature?”

He flushed. “Yes.”

“I see.” Her tone was icy, but she patted him on the arm as she released him. “Well. That will be yet another concern to bring up to the Inquisitor. Come, your office isn’t far.”

The stairs up the battlements were a struggle, but he was able to lean on the wall for support. His legs felt a little stronger once he was actually on the walkway. Whatever the ritual had done to his body had left him feeling like a newborn colt: wobbly, unsure, but getting steadier on his feet by the moment.

His office was dark, and it was a measure of his exhaustion that he didn’t react when Vivienne illuminated the torches with a wave of her hand. Instead, he stumbled to his desk and pulled out the spare shirt that he kept folded in a drawer. It was badly wrinkled and smelled like pine and ink, but Cullen knew he couldn’t yet make it up the ladder to reach his wardrobe. 

“You keep clothing in your desk? And wear it?” 

He glanced up to find Vivienne looking at him, a small but very distinct expression of disgust on her face.

“Yes? In case I need a spare?” 

She shook her head, sighing, “ _ Templars _ .” 

Cullen rolled his eyes as he buttoned the shirt, quietly grateful that his fingers still had some dexterity. “My fashion is the least of my problems, Enchanter.”

Vivienne sat primly in the chair across the desk, her hands folded in her lap. “You aren’t wrong. I’d hoped that the Inquisitor’s flirtation with the forbidden would remain just that: a flirtation. He’s young enough to see all the allure without any of the danger. But now…”

“Trevelyan thinks that he’s done me a favor.” Cullen rested his head in his hands. “I don’t even know where to start. Where to  _ think  _ about starting.”

“Do you truly intend to leave the Inquisition?”

“I can’t stay.” He curled his fingers in his hair, tugging in frustration. “Am I supposed to work side-by-side with that blood mage? I can’t trust the Inquisitor anymore, I can’t trust…”

Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, and Cullen scrubbed them away angrily. He would not permit himself to have a breakdown, not right now.

“No.” Vivienne surprised him with her agreement, enough so that he glanced up at her. Her expression was as stern as ever, but there was a remarkable amount of kindness in her eyes. “No, I don’t think we can trust dear Maxwell when it comes to things like this. But Commander, trust in one’s leaders, especially those with nearly unlimited power? That is a luxury. Many people are never afforded it.”

“What would you have me do?!” Cullen snapped. “Pretend none of this ever happened? Pretend I haven’t been...violated at the command of someone I thought was my friend?”

“Of course not. But you are one of the few voices that the Inquisitor listens to who truly understands the dangers of chaos left unchecked. If you go, one more vote for stability goes with you.”

“I think we’ve both seen how well Trevelyan  _ listens  _ to me.”

“In saving your life, he’s wronged you greatly in the process,” Vivienne agreed. She tilted her head. “And if you stay, you might serve as a reminder of what happens when magically gifted mortals play at being the Maker.”

Wrinkling his nose, Cullen sneered, “So I should use this to my advantage? Manipulate Maxwell’s guilt?  _ That’s _ your suggestion?!”

Vivienne raised an eyebrow at his tone. “What I am suggesting is that there’s no changing what’s been done to you. What you manage to claw back from it is entirely up to you.”

Shaking his head, Cullen leaned back in his chair. The idea of strategizing, of trying to work any part of this horrible night to his advantage, it felt impossible. It was one thing to rally himself in the middle of a crisis like Haven, but this was so much more personal. 

“You also have the luxury of time to sleep,” Vivienne added. “I would take advantage of it, rather than running off into the night.”

With a huff of breath, he said, “I can barely walk.”

“And yet, you made it up here.”

Any response was stopped in its tracks when the door to Cullen’s office opened and Maxwell poked his head in. He said nothing, just looked between Vivienne and Cullen with a confused furrow in his brow. 

“I’ll take my leave, Commander,” Vivienne said, rising. She strode past Maxwell, stopping only to say, “Inquisitor. We  _ will  _ discuss this tomorrow.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and it left Maxwell and Cullen staring at each other from across the room. It occurred to Cullen, apropos of nothing, that this was the most underdressed he had ever been around the Inquisitor while not also being on his deathbed. He was in his shirtsleeves and trousers, barefoot, his hair wild and starting to curl. But instead of feeling exposed, he just felt feral, as if one wrong word would have him baring his teeth and snapping his jaws.

“I, erm, didn’t realize you and Vivienne were close,” Maxwell said, fidgeting.

“We aren’t.” Cullen wasn’t in the mood to make this easier on the Inquisitor, whatever ‘this’ was.

“I...I don’t know where to start.” Whether he meant to or not, Maxwell was staring. Probably at the marks the mages claimed adorned Cullen’s face.

“Where’s the blood mage I’m enslaved to?” 

Grimacing, Maxwell said, “He’s in his quarters.”

“I’d see him in the cells, and then the gallows.”

“He was only following my orders!”

“And so we get to the root of the problem.” Right on cue, he was snarling, not able to keep the fury off his face.

Maxwell took a deep breath, leaning back against the door. “Can I--Cullen, please, if you want to leave right now, tonight, I’ll give you anything you ask for. A full pension, a stipend of lyrium to last you the rest of your life, whatever you need. But let me speak.”

Cullen crossed his arms, his hackles still up. “Fine.”

The Inquisitor took a moment to gather himself, scratching at the mark on his hand nervously as he thought. “When I first heard Alexius’ reasons for joining Corypheus, that he did it all to try and save his son, I thought was that it was such a stupid excuse. Then Dorian and I stumbled into that terrible future, and I saw what  _ became  _ of him trying to save his son. I felt more sure than ever that Alexius was just an easily manipulated, power hungry fool.” Maxwell swallowed, looking impossibly young for a moment. “And then you were attacked, and it was like the Maker was punishing me for having those thoughts.”

“You know the Maker doesn’t work like that,” Cullen said softly. He had not fully considered the terrible possibility that he and Maxwell were going to need to discuss their feelings during this talk about their feelings.

“Doesn’t He?” Maxwell asked, gesturing with his marked hand. “We still don’t know what happened to me in the Fade, what  _ really  _ happened. And it--” Clearly frustrated, he wiped at his eyes. “It was like a bad joke. You were dying, wasting away, and all I had to do to save you was to betray your trust and everyone else’s, and try this bit of miracle magic that wasn’t really a miracle. All of the sudden, I knew exactly what it was like to be Alexius.”

Profoundly uncomfortable, Cullen murmured, “I’m hardly your son.”

“But the Inquisition is mine, my responsibility!” Maxwell cried. “And I care about all of you so much! The idea of just sitting back and watching you fade away...I couldn’t do it. I knew you would hate me for it, but you would be alive to hate me.”

“Alive and bound to Dorian!” Cullen snapped. “You have no idea what happened during that ritual!”

“Because no one will tell me!”

Cullen opened his mouth to let the words spill out, but humiliation and shame choked him. He just shook his head, cheeks flushing. “I--I can’t.”

“Then how can I help?” Maxwell sounded so earnest, so eager. Still a puppy desperate to be liked, but Cullen had just lived through a firsthand reminder that this puppy had teeth.

He swallowed and met the Inquisitor’s gaze as evenly as he could. “This isn’t something you can fix.”

The Inquisitor’s face crumpled, clearly hurt by the words and the sentiment behind them. He took a moment to gather himself, and Cullen pretended not to notice as he wiped at his eyes. When Maxwell looked up again, his expression was determined.

“Maybe so. But speaking of things that need to be fixed…” Maxwell stepped forward, approaching Cullen’s desk and resting his hands on it lightly. “The Inquisition’s work isn’t over, Cullen. Far from it.”

“The Inquisition will be fine without me,” Cullen said, eyes narrowing. He could see the angle Trevelyan was driving at and did not appreciate it. “We’re no longer a ragtag band of heretics in tents. You can have your pick of commanders.”

“And I’ve picked you.” The Inquisitor’s gaze was steadier now, though his eyes were still puffy and red from tears. “You’ve been with us from the beginning. You were at the aftermath of the Conclave, you watched me seal the Breach, you were ready to die with us at Haven. You half-carried me to Skyhold. I trust  _ you _ .” 

Cullen felt a terrible, squirming sense of inevitability. “There are plenty of other-”

“You’ve done a fine job leading my armies, training my recruits, making us a force to be reckoned with.” Maxwell tilted his chin up, and something in his gaze reminded Cullen of a king on his throne. “Will you really walk away now, when Corypheus is still threatening the world? Abandon us all when Samson and the Red Templars are still running loose?”

“Damn you, Trevelyan!” Cullen snarled, slamming a fist against the desk furiously. 

The Inquisitor’s tactics were obvious, manipulative, unfair. They were also working.

“Stay, and serve, and help us to save all of Thedas, Cullen,” Maxwell said, somehow beseeching and commanding all at once. “Don’t abandon all of these people when they need you the most.”

Grinding his knuckles against the wood of the desk, Cullen forced himself to count back from ten to keep from screaming. When he could unclench his jaw, he asked, “Tell me, Inquisitor, what is it that makes you so keen to have me stay: my past performance, or the fact that if I’m still here, you can convince yourself that you’ve done nothing wrong?”

Maxwell couldn’t hide his flinch, but his gaze remained steely. “The end result is the same, either way.”

Cullen sucked in a sharp breath and had to look away first, to keep from doing something he would regret. The worst part of it was that he had vowed to never again let himself be unthinkingly swayed by a charismatic leader and a seemingly just cause after Kirkwall. He had  _ sworn  _ it. But the Inquisition wasn’t simply a just cause; it was quite literally the only force capable of restoring order. Maxwell Trevelyan, by chance or divine will, held the fate of the world in his marked hand. 

Could he walk away and sit on the sidelines of the battlefield when all of Thedas hung in the balance?

“What is your answer, Commander?” the Inquisitor asked, as if they didn’t both know.

“I have conditions,” Cullen answered, not bothering to force the scowl off his face when he looked back at Maxwell. 

Maxwell nodded minutely, graciously.  _ Noblesse oblige _ , as the Orlesians said.

“The first condition: you  _ never  _ use that ritual on someone who is unwilling ever again. I don’t care who else falls sick or takes an arrow to the spine.”

“And if we can convince them to consent to the ritual?” Maxwell asked, mind clearly at work.

Cullen laughed harshly. “I think you’ll find it a little more difficult with me as the living example, Trevelyan, no matter what you convince yourself of. And how many blood mages do you actually know?”

“I…” The Inquisitor’s shoulders slumped, and there was finally a crack in his facade. “Yes, all right. I reserve the right to try it if someone consents, though.”

“The second condition: whatever convincing lie Josephine and Leliana spin for the rest of the world about these marks? Your inner circle knows the truth about what happened.  _ All  _ of it.”

Maxwell’s face twisted, confused. “I agree, but why?”

“Because they deserve to know exactly who they have at their back when they travel with Dorian.”  _ And with you. _ “And I won’t put on a show and pretend for them during the War Table meetings. Bad enough I might have to do it any other time.

A quick nod. “Fine.”

Cullen suspected Maxwell was didn’t really understand just how badly this was going to go over with his companions.  _ Let him learn _ , he thought darkly. The Inquisitor was going to feel the consequences of this one way or another.

“What’s your third condition?” Maxwell asked, his posture more relaxed now that Cullen’s conditions seemed so easily met.

“I’ve been lying to you the entire time we’ve known each other,” Cullen answered, and he took a petty, savage glee at Maxwell’s baffled surprise.

“What?”

“I haven’t taken lyrium since three months before the Conclave,” he continued, with a mean, feral grin on his face. “I was being very literal about not being a Templar anymore.”

He could see the wheels turning in Maxwell’s head. As a Circle mage, he would be well-acquainted with the effects of lyrium and what happened to a Templar who went without. “But the withdrawals from that would-”

“They often make me wish I was dead, but they haven’t killed me yet.”

“Not yet doesn’t mean not ever!” Maxwell protested, circling the desk. “Cullen, the withdrawals are always deadly for a Templar, you can’t-”

“I can. I have.” He swallowed. “I am determined to see this through, to see if it can be survived. Cassandra knows, the chief healer knows, and now you know.”

“But-”

“That’s my third condition.” Cullen tilted his chin up, eyes hard. “I won’t go back onto the lyrium.”

The Inquisitor gaped at him like a fish pulled from the water. “But you’ll die!”

“Hopefully not.” His voice was cutting when he added, “You’ve gone through so much trouble, after all.”

Maxwell was scrambling for words. “A-and what happens if the withdrawals do leave you dying? You can’t lead the armies in that state! Think about this, Cullen!”

“Cassandra and I have already worked out contingency plans, should that happen.” Ruefully, he added, “Why do you think I was so well-prepared with backup plans when I was dosed with red lyrium? My potential death has been on my mind for months.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this?” Maxwell asked, and suddenly he was the sad, overwhelmed young man again, not the commanding Inquisitor. “I’m your friend, I would have-”

“It’s my burden,” Cullen interrupted, brusque. “I meant to shoulder it myself. I planned to tell you if I worried it was affecting my ability to perform my duties.”

“And so if you start having seizures and stop breathing, I’m supposed to just-”

“I suppose you could always have someone pour lyrium down my throat, just the way Samson did,” Cullen said, every word meant to hurt.

Maxwell flinched like he’d been slapped. His voice was quiet when he said, “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is any of this!” Cullen pounded a fist against the desk, his emotions roiling. “You have bound me to a blood mage and manipulated me into staying, and so you’ll damn well respect this one thing!” 

The Inquisitor was quiet for a long moment, staring at Cullen and absently digging his nails into the sparking green mark on his hand. Finally, he said, “All right.  _ Fine _ . But you’ll check in with me and Cassandra regularly! And you’ll take care of yourself, not dive straight into an early grave by not sleeping or eating while you work yourself to death.”

Cullen rolled his eyes, a sneer curling his lip. “I don’t need you to be a mother hen, especially not after-”

“Promise me!” Maxwell practically shouted it, and it startled Cullen enough to make him nod.

That seemed to calm Maxwell down, and his voice was steadier when he said, “Then I accept all three of your terms.” He went quiet again, fidgeting, before adding, “I think everyone needs to just...settle in for the night right now. But I want to meet in my quarters tomorrow, to discuss what actually happened during the ritual.”

“Didn’t your favorite magister tell you?” Cullen’s disrespect surprised him nearly as much as it surprised Maxwell. 

“Wh--uh, no.” Maxwell sighed. “It was an ordeal to get Sera not to shoot him. By the time that was done, he said it was a conversation that would go better if you were there.”

Cullen blinked. “Well. He’s correct.” He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaustion finally creeping up on him. “I’ll be at the meeting tomorrow.”

Maxwell looked relieved. “Good, that’s good. I’ll see you then. Try to get some rest?”

At Cullen’s glare, Maxwell just sighed again and left the office. 

The ladder was a challenge. Cullen had to pause halfway up, and then again a few rungs from the very top. But he was getting stronger, he could feel it. His body was recovering from everything that had been done to it. He managed to crawl through the trapdoor at last, and had never been so glad to see the stars above him.

His quarters were dark, with no fire going. But someone had been in to change the sheets on his bed.

Cullen sat on the floor, curled against the foot of his bed, his sword next to him and his hand resting on the hilt. It wasn’t a comfortable pose, and yet it was the only pose that felt comfortable. Exhaustion was finally hitting him, reaching sticky webs into his mind and dragging him down. He leaned his head against his knees, fingers still tight around the sword, and listened to the wind howling outside until he finally drifted off.

Some time must have passed, because Cullen felt the comfortable muzziness of sleep still clinging to his mind when he opened his eyes. In a terrible moment of _deja vu_, he realized he was no longer in his quarters.

He sat up with a half-formed shout, reaching for a sword that wasn’t there. The room around him was completely bare, stone floors and wooden walls. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here, he couldn’t-

“Ah, I wondered if you were going to be joining me again tonight.” It was Dorian’s voice.  _ Of course _ it was Dorian’s voice.

Cullen whirled around towards the source of the sound, springing into a crouch. He was greeted with the sight of Dorian sitting with his boots propped up on a table, staring up at the sky like he was stargazing. Cullen risked a glance upwards and flinched. 

The walls of the room soared into the sky, at least twenty feet up. There was no roof. The ‘sky’ above was a strange, sickly yellow-green, a mass of indistinct clouds that seemed to swirl like waves of the sea. Far above them, distant but unmistakable, the Black City loomed.

“The Fade.” Cullen was pleased that his voice came out calmly, since what he wanted was to start screaming.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Pavus wasn’t being sarcastic, for once. “Normally, the Fade takes on aspects of the dreamer’s mind, replicating their environment enough to be convincingly ‘real’. But when I woke up here, I was surrounded by the raw Fade itself.”

Cullen tore his gaze away from the Black City with some reluctance. The seat of the Maker, empty and dead. He had seen it before, of course; it was always present on the horizon in dreams. But usually he wasn’t aware of it, or even aware that he was dreaming. It was unsettling to look up at it with all his wits about him, knowing exactly what it was.

“What’s going on?”

“Hmm? Oh, we’re dreaming.” Dorian hadn’t bothered looking away from the city above them.

“I know we’re dreaming!” Cullen snapped, rising to his feet. “Why are we dreaming together? Are you real?”

With one last look at the sky, Dorian turned his attention to Cullen fully. “Because of the bond, obviously.” When Cullen just glared at him, Dorian sighed. “Let me guess: Maxwell wasn’t able to fully explain the ritual’s effects a few days ago, was he?”

“Pavus.” Cullen stalked towards the table, fists clenched. “You have ten seconds to explain and then I am going to kill you if the explanation isn’t good.”

Dorian blinked. “I...that’s very-”

“Ten.”

The mage rolled his eyes. “I doubt you could even manage to-”

“Nine.”

“ _ Fasta vass, _ all right.” Dorian took his boots off the table and stood up. “The connection that we formed binds us in the Fade as well, not just in the physical world. The two of us are able to walk in each other’s dreams and shape them, like a  _ somniari _ .”

Cullen digested that, feeling sick.

Dorian, mistaking the reason for his pause, added, “A  _ somniari  _ is a-”

“I know what a Dreamer is, you arrogant, inbred piece of shit!” Cullen began pacing, unable to help himself. The sight of the raw Fade above him was too unsettling to let him be still.

Dorian’s jaw dropped, and he sputtered, “I am  _ not  _ inbred!”

Cullen gave him a withering look. “Oh, so you  _ aren’t  _ related to Trevelyan and half the nobles in Free Marches?”

“Distantly related! And that isn’t the point!” Dorian took a breath. “The point is that we will share this small piece of the Fade between ourselves. Given your lack of magical ability, your dreams will probably form normally if I don’t actively pull you from them, as I’ve done now.”

Nodding, Cullen considered that new piece of information. And then, screaming, he tackled Dorian and began to rain blows down on him.

“I-” a shot to the jaw “-will-” a knee to the ribs as Dorian tried to rise “-kill-” another blow to the face, blood arcing out from Dorian’s nose “-you!”

Beneath him, Dorian threw a few uncoordinated punches to Cullen’s face, clearly taken by surprise. It was child’s play to block his counter attacks, to slam his fists down again and again, to-

“Enough!” Dorian managed to lock a hand around his wrist, and suddenly the mage was able to throw Cullen off of him with almost no effort. 

The two of them grappled in the dirt, clawing at each other, but Dorian’s grip on his wrist was like iron. Cullen was reduced to flailing helplessly at him, a lifetime of training vanishing like dust. But he didn’t stop fighting, couldn’t stop, a storm of fury raging in him. 

“Stop it!” Dorian, now the stronger of the two, rolled Cullen beneath him and pinned him. “Just stop! Stop and we can talk!”

“I don’t want to talk to you!” Cullen snarled, trying and failing to claw at Dorian’s eyes. “ _ Monster _ !”

Dorian snarled back at him, using the grip he had on Cullen’s shoulder to shake him hard. “Stop the bloody hysterics or I’ll  _ show  _ you a monster, Rutherford.”

The firm shake, combined with Dorian’s words, were enough to make Cullen lie still. He was panting, his teeth bared, and he could feel furious tears pricking the corners of his eyes. With more bravado than he felt, he sneered, “Is this round two, then? Didn’t manage to finish the first time, and so-”

“I owe you an apology,” Dorian interrupted. “Several, really.”

Cullen stared, trying to find the sarcasm on Dorian’s face. There was none.

“I promised the Inquisitor that I’d be gentle with you,” the mage continued. “I botched that, miserably.”

“‘Gentle with me’, like I’m some princess being married off and bedded,” Cullen sneered. “As if this is something I wanted-”

“I know you didn’t want any of it! Trust me, I’m very aware.” Cautiously, Dorian sat back. “If I let go of your wrist, will you please listen instead of trying to maul me?”

Jaw tight, Cullen nodded. 

“All right.” Dorian released his wrist, pausing to make sure that Cullen wasn’t about to lunge for his throat. When the commander remained still, Dorian climbed off of him and offered him a hand up.

Ignoring Dorian’s outstretched hand, Cullen climbed to his feet and eyed him. “Talk.”

“I altered the way you thought without realizing what I’d done,” Dorian said, in that serious tone that was so at odds with his normal personality. “And I let myself lose my temper, treating you like an enemy rather than someone whose wellbeing was my responsibility.” 

“I am  _ not- _ ”

“In this ritual, you most certainly were my responsibility.” Dorian bowed stiffly from the waist. “And so I offer my apologies for frightening you, and making the terms of the ritual worse on you because you were frightened. That was never my intent.”

Cullen glared at him, disbelieving. “That’s it? ‘Sorry I scared you,’ as if my being terrified was the only problem at all? You aren’t sorry for doing the ritual in the first place?”

Raising an eyebrow, Dorian answered, “No, of course not. I was following orders.”

“You-” Cullen lunged at him, and it was only a quick dodge backwards that kept Dorian out of his grasp. 

“Try that again and I’ll have you on your knees!” Dorian snapped, looking offended. “I was apologizing!”

“Fuck your apologies!” Cullen’s fists were clenched. He had fallen back into a fighting stance without any conscious decision. “I have your orders buried in my mind like maggots I can’t dig out! You’ve left some kind of mark on me that only mages can see! Your apologies aren’t worth anything until you  _ fix this _ !”

“It cannot be fixed!” Dorian snapped, shaking his head like Cullen was a child having a temper tantrum. “How many different ways can you be told this before it finally sinks in? Should I try a different language? Here, I’ll use Tevene:  _ Es stultior asino, et _ -”

With a bellow, Cullen lunged at him again and managed to tackle him this time, getting in a very satisfying punch to the magister’s jaw. He slipped in another few shots to his ribs before Pavus could grab his wrist again. Cullen found himself flipped over and pinned facedown to the ground, his arm twisted behind his back to keep his wrist in Dorian’s grasp. Dorian knelt on his back, an unpleasant mirror of their sparring match.

“You know, Cullen, a smarter man might try to get on my good side.” Dorian used his free hand to grab Cullen’s hair, wrenching his head back to hiss in his ear. “Especially given that I can do pretty much anything I like to you, and have you whimpering for more with just a few words.”

The noises Cullen made were nearly inhuman, seething with fury and fear. But even then his body betrayed him, his thrashing reduced to ineffectual wriggles rather than any real escape attempt. He could feel words forming on his tongue, words he forced down with indignant rage.

“Oh, you know what might be fun?” Dorian said, his chipper tone at odds with the way he twisted his fingers in Cullen’s curls. “Ordering you to come, over and over and over again. How many times do you think you could manage, Commander? Before you begged me to stop, I mean.”

He stilled, gritting his teeth and bracing himself for this new humiliation. Staring straight ahead, refusing to look at the man on top of him, Cullen said, “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Ha! Do you think I’m bluffing? Because I promise you, I’m not.” Dorian loosened his grip just a little. “If you would stop attacking me, I’d be perfectly cordial. But if you keep this up, you’re going to discover why it’s a bad idea to have me as an enemy.”

“You’re already my enemy!” Cullen snapped, swallowing to keep any more words from spilling out.

Dorian laughed, dark and delighted. “Oh, Cullen, you haven’t a clue what I would do to you if you were my enemy. Now, do you yield, or should I make this more interesting?”

He wanted to tell Pavus that he wouldn’t be intimidated by some blood mage, that there was nothing Pavus could do to him that hadn’t been done before. He wanted to spit curses and insults. He wanted to  _ scream _ , wordless and primal.

But the sentence he’d been swallowing down finally forced itself out. “I don’t like this. I don’t want this.”

He closed his eyes, cheeks burning in shame. It would only get worse when Dorian started mocking him-

“Ah. Yes.” He could feel the sigh that Dorian heaved before he pushed himself off Cullen’s back and released his wrist.

Scrambling backwards, Cullen made sure to put several feet between himself and Dorian before he bothered trying to stand. He kept his wrist held tight across his stomach, as if Dorian might dart out and grab it again.

But Dorian was still, simply looking Cullen up and down with an inscrutable expression. Finally, he said, “Well. Good to see that carried over.”

Cullen just shook his head, still feeling like a pot about to boil over.

With another sigh, Dorian raised his hand. “Perhaps it would be best to wait until tomorrow to discuss anything further. Sleep.”

“No, don’t you dare-”

With a small smirk, Dorian snapped his fingers. The Fade dissolved around Cullen like a chalk drawing warping and smearing in the rain. He felt the warm, comfortable darkness of true sleep reaching out to claim him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Es stultior asino" - "You're as stupid as an ass." Rude, Dorian.


	6. Chapter 6

When Cullen finally awoke in the real world, it was clear he’d slept the entire night and several hours past daybreak. This was so against his usual habits that he felt an entirely new sense of outrage. On top of all the other indignities heaped on him, the damned ritual had caused him to oversleep.

His seething irritation only increased as he dressed himself and descended the ladder to discover a messenger in his office.

“Oh, Commander!” She beamed at him. “You look so much better!”

Jaw tensing, Cullen had to swallow several times to keep from verbally eviscerating some poor messenger who had no idea what was going on. But his tone was still sharp as he asked, “Yes. What was it you needed?”

“Oh, uh, the Inquisitor sent me, he wanted to know if you were awake.”

Scowling harder, Cullen responded, “Ah. And if I am?”

The messenger, having caught the obvious fury in Cullen’s voice, said, “Er, he asked that you report to his quarters as soon as you’re able to?”

What he wanted was to avoid speaking to the Inquisitor for the rest of his life. But that wasn't an option. "...tell him I'll be along shortly." 

The messenger nodded and left, giving Cullen a few seconds to gather himself. A few seconds was all he could allow; if he started thinking, his thoughts would tailspin. He breathed deeply in and out, focusing on filling his lungs slowly and exhaling just as slowly. When he opened his eyes again, he felt calmer. Calm enough to pull on his arming jacket and his boots, at least. The ritual of it calmed him further. Greaves, pauldrons, vambraces, breastplate, strapped securely and much easier to wear all day than full plate. The coat with the warm, furry shoulders came last, and he felt more like himself when the scruff was tickling his cheeks.

His belt and scabbard were still sitting on their rack, as usual, and Cullen paused in the middle of reaching for them. He normally carried his sword everywhere, simply as a matter of course. If nothing else, the hilt was a convenient place to rest his hand in idle moments. But for this particular meeting, emotions would be running high. Cullen’s emotions, specifically. 

It would be better to leave the sword, just this once. Besides, he had a dagger hidden in his boot and another strapped to the sheathe on his thigh. If nothing he else, he could cite the fact that he had come without the sword as proof that he was being the mature one in this mess.

Outside, the sun still shone and the mountain birds still chirped. The world continued on, as it always did. The scar from the Breach hung in the sky, but it remained safely closed.

He had been a part of all of that in his own way, along with the rest of the Inquisition. Looking out over the magnificent view of the mountains, Cullen felt better about his decision to stay. He would not let the presence of Dorian Pavus prevent him from doing the work that needed done.

Skyhold was already bustling at this hour of the morning, but a circuitous route along the battlements allowed him to avoid nearly everyone. The few guards he passed saluted him eagerly, all of them looking pleased to see him even if they were too professional to do more than nod. That warmed him too, and he made a note to apologize for snapping at the messenger earlier. By the time he was nearing battlement entrance to the Inquisitor’s tower, Cullen felt more in control of himself.

“Coiling, curled, cut through with the Fade.”

The familiar voice stopped him cold, and he turned on his heel to where the Inquisition’s resident spirit was crouched on the railing like a gargoyle.

“Excuse me?” Cullen asked, his jaw tight. He was not...comfortable around Cole, even if he was beginning to believe that he had the best of intentions. Their strange, sporadic communication through notes was Cullen’s preferred way of talking to the spirit.

Cole just stared at him, eyes curious under the brim of his hat. He tilted his head after a moment, but the movement was more birdlike than human.

After several beats of silence, Cullen finally said, “Unless you’ve got a suggestion for reversing last night’s ritual, I’m going to leave now.”

“It was like a nest of snakes in the winter,” Cole replied. “Cutting one cuts all the others. Too tangled to tell. So I waited.”

“Thank you, that makes no sense at all,” Cullen sighed. “Enjoy staring at the rabbits all day or whate-- _ oh _ .”

The understanding came to him suddenly. Cole would have been aware of what was happening last night, surely, but had not intervened. But he  _ could  _ have. So this was…

“You’re apologizing,” Cullen said aloud. “Or--or explaining yourself, anyway. Explaining why you didn’t do anything to stop the ritual.”

“I want to help, but the helping was hard.” This was apparently Cole agreeing with Cullen. “Every hurt hooked into another. Solving one just made the others worse.” Almost wistfully, he added, “It was easier in the White Spire, before I knew more.”

That made Cullen huff. “When you were a younger and more innocent spirit?”

“Time is only set and solid sometimes.”

Shaking his head, Cullen said, “Right, well...it’s all right. I’m glad you didn’t stab anyone. Continue...not doing that.”

“If you still want to die, I can help.” Cole appeared blissfully unaware of what a disturbing statement that was. “It's like a candle going out, one blow and no pain. But no light or shadows anymore, either.”

Cullen blinked. “No, thank you.”

“I'm glad that you're still here and real.” Cole said this very earnestly, and then disappeared like he had never been there at all.

“Enlightening as ever,” Cullen muttered under his breath, before resuming his trek.

Walking into the Inquisitor’s quarters was uncomfortably like waking up after the ritual. Once again, he was greeted with Solas, Dorian, and the Inquisitor all staring at him. Maxwell was leaning against his desk, and Solas was nearby at the doors to the balcony. Pavus was sprawled across the chaise lounge, apparently right at home.

Cullen scowled and turned his attention to Trevelyan. “Inquisitor. Solas.” He pointedly did not acknowledge the blood mage.

“Commander,” Solas responded with a nod. “You seem to have recovered well. Were you able to sleep at all, last night?”

“If you’re asking whether I encountered Pavus in the Fade, yes, as I’m sure he’s mentioned.” He had fallen into a parade rest by habit without his sword to occupy his hands.

“I’ve told them nothing besides my general impression of the ritual,” Dorian piped up. “We were waiting for you.”

“How thoughtful,” Cullen bit out, still not looking at Pavus.

“Before we debrief, I imagine you have questions?” Solas continued as if neither of them had spoken.

“One or two.” His tone was acidic.

“That’s what this meeting is for, to get everyone on the same page,” Maxwell said, speaking for the first time. “Cullen, Solas can tell you everything we know about the ritual, anything-”

“Can it be reversed?” 

There was a beat of silence, and then Solas answered, “No. As I said last night, the effects of it are permanent and will last the rest of your life.”

“If I were to kill Dorian, would that undo the ritual?”

“I beg your pardon?” Pavus had the nerve to sound indignant.

Solas sighed. “No, it would not. Whatever commands he inadvertently gave will remain in place. His death would prevent him from giving you new orders, nothing more.”

“Nobody is killing anyone!” Maxwell interjected. “This is a violence-free room.”

Cullen just grunted. After a moment of thought, he asked, “This mark that you claim is on me, the one that only mages can see? What is it? What purpose does it serve?”

“An excellent question.” Solas stepped forward, offering Cullen a piece of paper. “It occurred to me that you wouldn’t know what it looked like. This was my best effort at recreating it.”

Cullen looked at the drawing, his brow furrowing. The sketch of his torso and face was quick and lacking details, just simple marks to indicate his features. Far more detailed was the...the  _ serpent  _ that was winding itself around the drawing’s torso. It was a long, sinuous thing, the scales intricate and apparently shimmering with light. It looped around his stomach, his ribs, curling down his left arm to wrap around his wrist before meandering back up. If it were a real snake, it would have been impossibly long and tangled. He couldn’t see a head or a tail; the lower half dipped below what must have been Cullen’s waist. The top half curled once about his throat, covering his right eye completely, and disappeared into his hairline on his forehead.

“This is--” Cullen swallowed, staring at his own hands as if he would suddenly see the marks. “This is on me? Right now?”

“The scales are gold and black,” Maxwell said, nodding. “When you’re, er, dressed, it’s mostly hidden. Gloves would cover the loop on your wrist, but the coil around your throat and face...you really can’t see it at all?”

Cullen’s head snapped up, and he felt dangerously off-balance again. “Of course I can’t! Would I be asking any of you about it if I could?!”

Maxwell opened his mouth, but Solas spoke first. “Like I theorized, it seems to be visible only to mages and others who are attuned to the Fade. There are small bits of the Fade woven into it, enough to make it exist without having any noticeable effect on you.” He paused. “ _ Have _ you noticed any effect from it?”

Mutely, Cullen shook his head, feeling his stomach lurch a little. He was glad he hadn’t eaten breakfast. After swallowing down the bile in his throat, he asked, “And...and all mages can see it?”

Solas nodded again. “That appears to be the case. Vivienne did not contribute any blood or magic to the ritual, and she was still able to see the serpent. Cole would likely be able to, as well.”

The spirit’s words on the battlements came back to him suddenly.  _ ‘Coiling, curled, cut through with the Fade.’ _ Cullen grimaced and shook his head again before asking, “What  _ is _ it?”

Solas squared his shoulders. “Something I did not expect to see. In the records of the rituals, there is mention of those being bound to exceptionally powerful mages being given marks of ownership or allegiance. Based on the text, these mages were the kings and queens of their various domains, and found adorning their servants with these marks to be useful.”

“Branding them,” Cullen muttered, rubbing at his wrist nervously.

“Essentially, yes,” Solas agreed, nodding. “However, there was nothing that suggested these marks would naturally appear as a result of doing the ritual. Indeed, there are many accounts of the  _ Evanur’sulevin _ looking identical before and after the ritual. It’s possible-”

“Eva-nursu-levin?” Cullen sounded the word out, though he knew he was butchering the pronunciation. His knowledge of Elvish was entirely lacking; he knew more phrases in Qunlat from his time in Kirkwall than he did of the elves’ language.

“Ah, apologies, that is the word used in the texts for those like yourself who have been bound by the ritual,” Solas explained. “The exact translation is ‘purpose of the gods’, but the phrase is used to mean ‘those given purpose by the gods’. Or so I’ve gleaned from my studies.”

“You hadn’t mentioned that before,” Dorian said, curious. “Was this some sort of religious ritual that we just defiled?”

Solas gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “Hardly. The elves doing these rituals believed their will was like the will of a divine being, a mark of their arrogance. That is where the name comes from, but it was not a sacred rite by any stretch.”

“You were saying you had an idea about why Cullen ended up marked?” Maxwell prompted.

“Ah, yes. It’s possible that there was some element of the ritual that we weren’t able to properly mimic, or perhaps the marks appear directly as a result of the power within the blood or the caster of the spell.”

“I like to think of myself as godlike, yes,” Dorian preened. When he was met with two flat stares and a furious one, he added, “Although this was probably not the time for that joke.”

“So because none of you knew what you were doing, I ended up with some glowing Fade snake tattooed onto my body,” Cullen summarized, his jaw clenched.

“It could be worse, Commander, you could have been reduced to a drooling vegetable.” Dorian was smirking, the little bastard.

“Dorian, stop trying to start a fight,” Maxwell said tiredly. “I’m sorry, Cullen, I truly am. None of us knew this was a possibility. If we find a way to remove the marks, or hide them, I’ll tell you immediately, okay?”

Cullen just shook his head, not able to think of a response to that which didn’t involve screaming. Instead, his voice still sharp, he asked, “Why a snake?”

Tellingly, Maxwell and Solas both glanced at Dorian, who just sighed. “It is a...personal sigil of mine, taken from the crest of House Pavus.”

Fury ignited in Cullen’s veins, and he stepped towards Dorian without any plan besides causing hurt. Maxwell was there in a flash, stepping between them and holding his hands up. “Hey! Cullen! He’s answering your question!”

“He  _ branded  _ me with his family’s-”

“Commander.” Solas’ voice was placating, a calm lake amid the storm of Cullen’s emotions. “Whatever else may be Dorian’s fault-”

“Ahem!”

“-I can promise you that the marks are not.” Solas approached to stand at Maxwell’s side. “There are several things we don’t know about what happened to you last night, but of this, I’m sure. This was not something Dorian could have planned without my knowledge or help, after all.”

While Cullen did not trust Solas in matters of magical judgement, the hedge mage had never lied to him. With a sharp nod, he stepped back, wedging himself against the fireplace to keep stable stone at his back. “Fine.”

“All right,” Maxwell breathed out once violence was not imminent, “so that’s one mystery explained. We still need to talk about what actually happened during the ritual.”

“That will require some explanation, and possibly a demonstration.” Dorian had not moved from his spot, apparently entirely unconcerned by Cullen’s threats. And why would he be?

“Fine, Solas and I can-”

“Only one of you needs to be present,” Cullen snapped, barely able to keep the snarl off his face. “I’m not a dancing bear to trotted out for entertainment.”

The fewer people watching him during this, the better.

Maxwell and Solas exchanged a look, and Solas said, “Commander, the Inquisitor is hardly an expert in these matters-”

“And it turns out that neither are you!” Cullen interrupted.

The offended look on Solas’ face was gratifying.

“All right, what about this?” Maxwell said, stepping past Solas. “Dorian and Cullen can, er, demonstrate, and then I can tell you about it later, Solas? That way you can still give input, and they can have some privacy?”

Solas nodded. “As you wish, Inquisitor.” The door clicked closed behind him, leaving the three of them alone in the Inquisitor’s quarters. 

Cullen briefly contemplated whether he could survive a jump straight from the balcony.

“Cullen, listen, I know-” Maxwell began, stepping towards Cullen where he was lurking by the fireplace.

“Dorian is planning to explain himself,” Cullen said, voice sharp, “given that he does love to talk endlessly.”

“I know this isn’t what you-” Maxwell reached out and rested his hand on Cullen’s forearm.

His response was instant, more instinct than any conscious thought. Cullen grabbed the Inquisitor’s wrist, wrenching his arm back until just a bit more pressure would snap something. “Don’t touch me!”

That, of course, was when the rest of his brain caught up to him, and Cullen realized that he was  _ attacking  _ the Herald of Andraste. He released Maxwell with a gasp and backed away, his hands up. Dorian, still sprawled on the chaise lounge, was actually open-mouthed with shock.

“ _ Ow _ ,” Maxwell groaned, rubbing his wrist with a grimace. “That’s my rift-sealing hand, Cullen.”

“I’m sorry,” Cullen murmured, the apology automatic. It had been nearly a decade since he’d felt jumpy enough in his own skin to worry that he might be a danger to someone else, and now he was practically breaking Maxwell’s arm for touching him unexpectedly. 

“It’s all right,” the Inquisitor said, staring at him curiously. “We should probably get on with this, though. I’ve only got two arms.”

Cullen felt his cheeks color and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. As if every single aspect of this wasn’t horrible enough already…

“The trouble began from entirely good intentions, I can assure you,” Dorian said, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the chaise. Cullen was grateful to have the Inquisitor’s attention drawn away from him. 

“We had a script, didn’t you use it?” Maxwell asked, hands on his hips.

“You had a  _ what _ ?” Cullen couldn’t hold back an indignant squawk. 

“In the ritual, in the Fade, statements Dorian made about you, commands he gave you, they would become reality,” Maxwell explained. “That’s the, um, ‘reforging’ part of it. It’s why we came up with a script, some neutral, safe things to say that wouldn’t, er…”

“Strip me of my free will?” Cullen bit out.

“You seem pretty free-spirited currently!” Maxwell said, holding up the wrist Cullen had twisted.

“I didn’t realize how literal it was,” Dorian interjected. He smoothed his fingers across his mustache, in what Cullen was beginning to recognize as a nervous gesture. “I...I told him not to be afraid. And so-” Dorian gestured helplessly.

“Oh shit,” Maxwell hissed, realization dawning on him. He turned to Cullen. “So wait, are you-”

“He figured out at the very end what the problem was.” Cullen shifted against the stone of the fireplace. “So I have a full range of normal emotions again.”  _ As normal as they ever are. _ “But for most of the ritual, I  _ couldn’t _ be afraid. And evidently Magister Pavus has a limited tolerance for being questioned.”

Dorian sighed. “I may have lost my temper.”

“May?!”

“You’re infuriating, and ungrateful, and-”

“What exactly was said during the ritual?” Maxwell interrupted.

Dorian went silent, looking uncharacteristically embarrassed. 

Cullen stayed silent, red-faced and furious.

The Inquisitor stared between them, increasingly exasperated until he finally said, “Andraste’s ass, let me go ahead and make it an order: tell me what was said during the ritual. What compulsion is the commander of my armies currently under?”

“Mainly sexual,” Dorian said at last, with what Cullen had to admit was a very steady tone.

“...what?”

Dorian looked at Cullen for support. Cullen just glared, the message clear:  _ Handle this your own damn self, Tevinter _ .

“Do you remember the, erm, ‘literature’ that Sera happened to loot off a Venatori and was reading aloud in the tavern a few weeks ago?” Dorian asked.

“The one with the Templar?” Maxwell asked, dubious.

“The one with the Templar and the magister, and the ravishing, and the chains, yes,” Dorian said. He offered a bright smile. “Well! That is a good summary of what our Commander fantasizes about now.”

“No, it isn’t!” Cullen growled, cheeks flaming red.

“It is.”

“ _ What _ ?!” Maxwell’s cheeks were also pink, and he seemed caught between mortification and laughter. “Dorian, what in the world?”

“I never claimed to be original or tasteful in the bedroom,” Dorian grumbled, looking a bit like a cat caught doing something embarrassing.

“Okay, that’s...wow. And inappropriate! But we can all work around that,” Maxwell said, trying for an encouraging tone even though he was still blushing.

“That’s far from all of it.” Cullen’s glare could burn holes through stone. “Dorian apparently likes his bed partners unable to fight back.”

“Maybe I just think it’s funny when it’s you,” Dorian snapped, glaring just as fiercely. Cullen’s hands clenched into fists.

“Reminder: I have no idea what either of you are talking about right now.” Maxwell stared between them. “This is something physical? Not just embarrassing fantasies?” At Cullen’s angry nod, the Inquisitor said, “Show me?”

Cullen blanched, and Maxwell quickly added, “I mean, assuming that it doesn’t involve, um…”

“I think we can demonstrate without anyone taking their clothes off,” Dorian said. He looked at Cullen, smirking slightly and holding out a hand. “Commander? Probably best to do this on the couch.”

Cullen stayed firmly against the fireplace, arms crossed, still glaring.

“Cullen?” Maxwell’s voice was soft, like he was talking to a panicky horse. “I know you’re furious at me, and that this is the last thing you want to be doing, but don’t you think the Inquisition should at least know what’s happened?” The ‘just in case’ was left unspoken, but was there.

The wretched unfairness of it all made Cullen want to scream as he stalked over to the chaise and sat as far from Dorian as he physically could. He took a moment to steady himself before saying, “Give me your arm, Inquisitor.”

“Er?”

“It’s for the demonstration,” Cullen snapped, feeling unspeakably awkward. 

Raising an eyebrow, the Inquisitor ventured closer and held out his arm, the one Cullen hadn’t already twisted. Cullen closed a hand firmly around his wrist. His grip wasn’t quite tight enough to bruise, but Maxwell wouldn’t be squirming away. “Try to break my hold.”

Maxwell flicked a glance at Dorian, who just shrugged. “Like he said, it’s for the demonstration.”

With a sigh, Maxwell jerked his arm a few times, trying to pull away from Cullen to no avail. The Inquisitor was no weakling, but he was trained to wield a staff and wore robes and light armor at best. In a purely physical competition, Cullen would overpower him easily. After a particularly hard jerk, Maxwell gave an impatient, “All right?”

Dorian held out his hand to Cullen as if he was asking some noblewoman to dance. “Commander?”

With a grimace, Cullen placed his free hand in Dorian’s, feeling the mage’s warm fingers close around his wrist. A shiver went through him, and he heard Dorian say, “Try now, Inquisitor.”

Maxwell pulled loose insultingly easily, despite Cullen’s attempts to tighten his grip. Brow furrowed, Maxwell stepped closer to the couch. “I don’t understand.”

“When he grabs me by the wrist, I apparently lose all ability to put up a fight,” Cullen said, his face twisting in disgust. He glanced at Dorian, and in a very low voice, muttered, “I don’t like this.”

Dorian squeezed his hand softly. “I know, Commander. Fear not. It won’t be for very long.”

“I don’t--but you can still stand?” Maxwell took Cullen’s free hand curiously, bending his fingers back gently like he was inspecting a strange tool. 

Cullen attempted to jerk his arm away, couldn’t, and ground his jaw so hard that his molars creaked. Through gritted teeth, he muttered, “I think.”

“Here, try.” The Inquisitor tugged on his shoulder, yanking Cullen off the couch entirely.

“Ah!” Cullen stumbled to his feet, his legs unsteady under him.

“Woah!” Maxwell caught him, an arm around his waist. Dorian’s grip was still steady on Cullen’s wrist, stretching his arm out. It was an immensely awkward position, putting Cullen inches from Maxwell’s face.

“My legs aren’t very stable,” Cullen said, once he was sure he wasn’t about to fall. “A bit like I’m drunk. But I can stand.”

Maxwell appeared to be studying the mark on Cullen’s face, the one all the mages insisted was there.

Cullen squirmed, the most emphatic attempt at escape he could manage. “Inquisitor!”

“Oh! Right, sorry!” Maxwell let go of Cullen, keeping close until the other man was back on the couch. Dorian finally released his hand and Cullen yanked it back to safety, rubbing nervously at his wrist.

“So am I to assume the purpose of that was also mainly sexual?” Maxwell asked.

“It’s also tactical, I can pin him very easily now.”

The reminder made Cullen huff angrily.

“So it’s just if you specifically grab his wrists?” 

“Or ankles.”

“Did you two actually have sex in the Fade?” Maxwell asked, eyes wide.

“No, thank the Maker.” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, wishing he could crawl to his tower and never come back out. “Are we finished with this, now?”

“Was that everything?” Maxwell asked.

“Everything that would interfere with my ability to fight,” Cullen said, shifting uncomfortably. He could feel the Inquisitor staring at him, could feel Dorian’s gaze from his other side, and the squirm of humiliated heat in his gut was like an ember burning softly.

“But not everything?” The Inquisitor’s voice was soft.

Cullen’s eyes snapped up to meet the Inquisitor’s. “Let me be very clear, Trevelyan. I’m not having sex with Dorian, and I’m certainly not doing it in front of you.”

Their staredown was interrupted by Dorian clearing his throat. “May I propose a compromise? No one removes a single boot or pops a single button, leaving the Commander’s questionable virtue firmly intact-”

“Void take you, mage!” Cullen snarled, pushing up from the chaise with a growl. He was halfway to the door when the Inquisitor spoke.

“Cullen! This meeting isn’t over!”

Cullen rounded on him, fury building. But Maxwell had that sharp gleam in his eye that Cullen recognized from the War Table meeting where he had been ordered to spar with Dorian, the gleam that was alternately playful and deadly serious.

“You have chosen to stay with this Inquisition, Cullen,” Maxwell continued, chin tilted up. “And that means you follow my orders, correct?”

“This is perverse.” His fingernails bit into the railing of the staircase, grip so tight that it hurt. The ember in his gut burned hotter. “This is unnecessary, and perverse, and I  _ won’t _ .”

“It’s only this one time,” Maxwell said, his voice lower and gentler now. “Just so that I can understand what happened during the ritual. That’s the only time you’ll have to do this, Cullen, I promise.”

Dorian, still watching him from over the back of the chaise, said nothing.

Unsteady, Cullen forced one foot forward, then another, until he was back within range. He felt so brittle that he might well snap if anyone touched him. Staring at a middle point on the wall over the Inquisitor’s shoulder was the only thing that kept him from bolting.

“Dorian?” 

“As I said. Everything stays on, and this is purely for, erm, educational purposes. I simply give some of the, ah, commands I mentioned during the ritual, we see if they hold their same effectiveness here in the physical world, and all parties leave considerably more knowledgeable. Does that sound agreeable, Cullen?”

“You know I don’t want this,” Cullen said, teeth still gritted. He couldn’t look at Dorian, could barely speak for the humiliation he knew was coming. “What I want doesn’t matter.”

Dorian exhaled softly. “Inquisitor?”

“Go ahead.”

Gray eyes studied him, betraying nothing. His voice was calm, polite, as if they were discussing a merchant’s order when he said, “Cullen, darling, beg for me take you.”

The ember in his gut roared into an inferno, and Cullen lunged forward to grab Dorian by the collar of his ridiculous outfit. He slammed their mouths together with a moan, artless and desperate. A startled “mmph!” was all Dorian managed to get out before Cullen pushed him back across the length of the couch.

Dorian was already half-hard, Cullen noted with a smug satisfaction. He straddled the mage’s thighs, a mirror of the position they’d ended up in during the ritual.

“Fuck me,” Cullen growled into his ear, gripping the meat of Dorian’s thigh to yank him closer, to grind them together. “You’ve done  _ nothing  _ but tease me since you came here-”

“Uh, Cullen-” Maxwell had never sounded less sure, and Cullen had never cared less that the Inquisitor was present.

“-so make good on all your dirty promises and  _ fuck me _ , you awful bastard.” Cullen grabbed Dorian’s hair to tilt his head up, to drag him into another kiss. Dorian’s hands actually flailed, like he had no idea where to put them, before they finally settled on Cullen’s shoulders, pushing him back slightly. 

“That’s, uh, the Inquisitor is-” Dorian was panting, his mustache and goatee ruffled, looking more like a startled owl than the cunning and collected blood mage. 

It made Cullen snicker, delighted, wriggling on him like a tavern wench. “The Inquisitor is gagging for one of us, apparently-”

Maxwell made a sound like a goose being strangled.

“-maybe both of us, so let’s not disappoint His Worship. Damn it, why does this have so many buckles?!” Cullen yanked furiously at the leather straps holding Dorian’s shirt on him, outraged beyond reason that they were keeping the mage clothed. 

“Uh, uh, well, I?” Dorian fumbled for words when Cullen deigned to stop kissing him. It was only when Cullen paused in his attack for a particularly hard tug on one of the leather straps that Dorian seemed to remember where he was. “Stop that!"

"Oh,  _ make me _ ,” Cullen laughed, giving another sharp yank and sending a buckle flying halfway across the room as the seam finally tore. 

“Dorian, er, maybe now would be a good time to undo this?” Maxwell’s tone was panicky, and all Cullen could think was,  _ Good. Let someone else be miserable for a while. _

“I don’t know how!” Dorian snapped, his voice breaking slightly on the final word as Cullen used his teeth to worry at his earlobe.

“Tsk, it’s almost like blood magic is dangerous,” Cullen murmured, punctuating his statement with a sharp slap right where Dorian’s thigh met his ass. The result was a  _ very  _ satisfying yelp and an encouraging jiggle. “And unpredictable. Maker’s breath, why are you still wearing clothes?” 

" _ Kaffas _ ," Dorian gasped, and then murmured, "Nothing ventured...Cullen? Come for me."

Though he'd been hard, he'd been nowhere close to coming. The order hit him like a punch to the gut, pleasure so sharp and sudden that it  _ hurt  _ as he came in his smallclothes like a teenager. His back arching, he could only wail as he emptied himself fully, his orgasm coming in several spurts as it was forced from him. When it was over, he collapsed on Dorian's chest, burying his head against the other man's throat. 

The silence that followed was deafening. 

When the Inquisitor finally spoke, his voice was very small. “That wasn’t what I was expecting,”

“Nor I.” Dorian sounded strained. He turned his head slightly, murmuring to Cullen, “Are you back with us?”

“Please kill me,” Cullen mumbled against Dorian’s throat.

“He’s back,” Dorian confirmed, patting Cullen on the shoulder. “You’re crushing me, Commander.”

“Good.”

“Dorian, why did you create a magic word that makes him tear your clothes off?” Maxwell’s voice was at least an octave higher than usual.

“The intent behind the command was that he would beg me to ravish him.” Dorian pushed on his shoulder. “I really can’t breathe in this position.”

Grimacing, Cullen forced himself up, away from the relatively safe darkness of Dorian’s chest. He shuffled to the side, off the mage’s legs, and awkwardly pulled a pillow over his lap to hide the incredibly obvious wet spot soaking through his breeches. Across from them, Maxwell was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands also strategically covering his lap, his cheeks redder than Cullen had ever seen them.

“Um,” was all Maxwell could offer upon actually looking at Cullen.

_ Maker, please let the earth swallow me whole _ .

“Apparently, Cullen and I have different interpretations of the phrase ‘begging’.” Dorian straightened and swung his legs over the couch so that he and Cullen were sitting side by side. “Something I did  _ not  _ predict. So this was a useful exercise after all.” 

“He was technically making requests,” Maxwell said. He swallowed, his voice back to its normal pitch. “Just...very emphatically. Maybe because he was angry? Cullen?”

It took a good twenty seconds to force out, “I can’t have this conversation right now.”

To his surprise, Dorian said, “Fair enough, I’d imagine that was quite an experience. Probably best to leave off here.”

“So that was everything?” Maxwell looked between them. “No other bizarre surprises?” 

Cullen cringed, the words ‘sweet little pet’ echoing in his head in Dorian’s voice. He couldn’t do this, not now, and especially not in front-

“None that I know of,” Dorian said, patting Cullen on the knee obnoxiously, “although I was admittedly a little distracted by this point in the ritual.” 

The sudden touch was a mask, an excuse for any of surprised reaction that might slip out of him, Cullen would realize later. Dorian was very,  _ very  _ good at the Game. 

"Maker." Maxwell scrubbed a hand over his face. He looked to Cullen, his gaze hesitant. "I understand why you were so upset, when you woke up. That wasn't what any of us had planned when we talked about the ritual. This was never what I wanted for you."

"As I said," Dorian interjected, his expression unreadable, "I lost my temper."

"You aren't ever to use any of that on Cullen against his will." Maxwell was as serious as Cullen had ever seen him. “If he reports to me that you have, I’ll have you put in the cells. I can’t fix what went wrong in the ritual, but I can draw a line in the sand now. Do you understand me, Dorian? I’m not joking.”

“Of course.” Dorian’s voice was still carefully neutral, and Cullen did not trust him at all.

Maxwell looked at Dorian for a long second, before scrubbing a hand across his face. “Cullen, you can go and, er, clean yourself up. I’ll discuss this with Solas. Dorian, I want a word with you in private.”

Cullen wanted to object. He did not enjoy leaving conversations when he knew he was going to be the topic of discussion. But in this case? He nearly sprinted from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we all know, Cullen can flee from an awkward situation like a cheetah: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7m0hab1_Es


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The man, the myth, the mustachioed legend: Dorian Pavus.
> 
> It's POV switch time! Several paragraphs of italicized text indicates a flashback.

Dorian of House Pavus, Magister of the Tevinter Imperium and Lord of Asariel, was really,  _ really  _ not looking forward to this conversation. He’d just had the singularly strange experience of being given an aggressive lap dance by the commander of the Inquisition, and his thoughts were nearly as ruffled as his mustache.

But now that the Inquisitor had a better idea of just how the ritual had gone wrong, Dorian knew it was inevitable. Maxwell might be easily distracted, but he was fiercely protective. It was one of the things Dorian found endearing about him, normally.

With a sigh, he smoothed out his hair and tried for a chipper tone. “Well, that was unexpected! He nearly broke one of my ribs with his knees; if that’s the way he normally goes about sex, no wonder-”

“You promised me he was safe in your hands.” Maxwell was not smiling.

_ Right to the heart. _ “He was! He is!” Dorian sighed. “I’m not going to hurt him.”

“Last night he was planning to quit the Inquisition! Just now, I thought his head was going to explode from embarrassment! And that’s ignoring th-the ‘beg me to take you’ thing! Why would you  _ do  _ that to him?” 

Maxwell was genuinely flabbergasted. That was the worst part, Dorian reflected. The Inquisitor had believed better of him, believed that Dorian was worthy of his trust, and now the doubts were creeping in. It shouldn’t have affected Dorian so strongly, but he still felt a curious, awful tightness in his chest at the thought.

“The ritual required some kind of submission from him!” Blast, he hadn’t meant to sound so defensive. “Solas was very, very clear on the matter. Exhaustively so. And your Commander certainly isn’t going to submit to me like a worshiper to a god, or a servant to his master, so-”

“So sex was the only logical choice?” Maxwell’s tone was scathing. “It was the  _ only  _ choice?”

It took all of Dorian’s strength not to cringe. The conversation before the ritual, when Cullen had been slowly dying rather than actively coughing blood, was the third-most awkward interaction he’d ever had with Solas.

_ “Submission,” Solas drawled.  _

_ He had a nice voice, Dorian had to give him that. Especially when he was saying things like ‘submission’. It would be enough to make Dorian wonder what he looked like naked, except Solas was so very Solas-y in every other way. _

_ “Sorry, what?” Maxwell was running on very little sleep, and looked like he was wondering if he was hallucinating. _

_ “The final and most important element that we don’t have is Cullen’s submission,” Solas explained, patient as ever. “He must  _ agree  _ to give himself over to Dorian in some way.” _

_ There was a long, tense beat of silence, and then Dorian’s restraint broke. “So is this some sort of sex magic? Did the ancient elves  _ have  _ sex magic? Should I come up with a watchword? How about ‘Mortalitasi’?” _

_ “No, yes, no, and please be silent,” Solas responded flatly, and then resolutely talked over Dorian’s attempt to follow up on that ‘yes’ answer. “This ritual is meant to be at least somewhat voluntary. It is imperative that the would-be  _ Evanur’sulevin _ is aware that magic is being worked upon them and that they submit to the spellcaster.” _

_ Maxwell looked somewhere between intrigued and scandalized. “So...it’s definitely sex magic?” _

_ Solas murmured something that was probably not a compliment under his breath and then responded, “For the final time, no. There are many types of submission, and almost all of them are  _ not  _ sexual. A servant to his master, for example, or a soldier to his commanding officer. Even a child to his parent. All of those are the sort of submission that is needed, a tacit agreement to trust and obey the person giving orders.” _

_ “Your relationship with your family must have been lovely if you think children submit to their parents,” Dorian quipped. He was being obnoxious, he knew that, but it was his favorite deflection tactic when he felt especially nervous. “What were you like as a little elf, anyway, Solas? I assume you had hair-” _

_ “Dorian, stop.” Maxwell leaned forward. “So theoretically, all Dorian has to do is explain to Cullen what’s going on, and then Cullen can agree to it, and it will all be fine?” _

_ Dorian and Solas exchanged a glance. They had mutually agreed to ignore Maxwell’s fervent denial that Cullen was going to choose death, but that could only carry them so far. The commander had a day left, if that. _

_ “And what will happen when he doesn’t agree?” Dorian asked Solas directly, ignoring the wounded look Maxwell shot him at the mere idea. _

_ Solas looked away, visibly uncomfortable. _

_ “Solas?” the Inquisitor prompted. _

_ “The commander, though greatly limited in his perspective, genuinely attempts to protect others,” Solas finally said. “I don’t enjoy being a part of this plan to bind him.” _

_ Dorian braced himself for Maxwell’s upset protestations, but the Inquisitor was quiet instead. He looked down at the table, and his voice was determined when he said, “I can’t lose him, Solas. I won’t. Let it be my order, if that makes it easier.” _

_ “It does not.” But his expression was businesslike as he looked at Dorian again. “Nevertheless, I will help. Dorian, when Cullen inevitably refuses-” _

_ “He might not!” Maxwell was ever the optimist. _

_ “-then the obvious solution is to reshape his will until he does submit. The ritual can re-order both the mind and the body.” _

_ “He won’t be much good as a commander if he’s mindlessly obedient,” Dorian pointed out, “or some sort of mentally broken invalid.” _

_ “His thoughts will be shaping much of the initial encounter. Take your cues from him on the easiest path. A soldier to his general, perhaps.” _

_ _

Needless to say, Cullen’s mind had not taken them down a platonic, soldierly path. Back in the present, Dorian protested, “He was the one who put us in bed together in the Fade, not me!”

It had been fascinating to watch the Fade shift around them, to see tangible proof that Rutherford was affected by Dorian’s sultry eyes and bedroom voice. Even as he’d sneered and tried to ignore him, the room around them had twisted in response to Cullen’s emotions. They had ended up side by side in a bed without Dorian even trying that hard. At that point, he’d been feeling rather smug about how easy it all was.

“You could have talked to him! Explained things-”

“Max…” Dorian ran his fingers through his hair, looking for the right words. “You have to understand: I didn’t realize that I’d altered the way he thought. When he began fighting and throwing out insults, I thought...I assumed it was a deliberate choice he was making, to disrupt the ritual as much as possible. The Fade reacts to emotions, to memories. I managed to clamp down on the fury he was feeling to keep us from, I don’t know, being in a bed in the middle of a volcano, but fury was all I could pick up from him. I didn’t realize he was terrified and not able to react to it until it was much too late.”

Maxwell’s brow furrowed. “Terrified?”

“You warned me he was snippy around mages, and I expected as much from a southern Templar, but…” He trailed off again, remembering the violent, fear-soaked, whirlwind tour he had endured of whatever trauma was rattling around inside Rutherford’s thick skull. “Either he has an impressively morbid and overactive imagination, or there was some sort of bad incident with a mage in his past.”

Chewing his lower lip, Maxwell took a seat across from Dorian. “I know he was in Kirkwall when that apostate blew up the Chantry? And he said something about blood mages...”

Dorian shrugged. “We didn’t exactly get a chance to go over it with a fine-toothed comb. The point is that I interpreted his panicked aggression as regular aggression, and...I lost my temper. Instead of subtle changes to make him submit, I was a bit more, ah, overt.”

“Overt, yes, that’s a term for it.” The Inquisitor’s voice was acerbic, but he looked at Dorian with sad eyes and earnest worry. It was horrible. “Why didn’t you just explain that you need, erm, submission of some kind?”

“Because he wasn’t going to give it. It’s the same reason you didn’t tell him about it. Maxwell, you know I have nothing but the highest esteem for your quick wit, but you’re delusional if you think Rutherford was going to agree at any point during this. I was always going to have to force him.” Keeping his tone fairly light, Dorian added, “I told you as much, you know.”

“Even when he was literally dying right at that second?” When Maxwell was extremely frustrated, he actually pouted without realizing it. Dorian did not think this was the best time to tell him that.

“He’s a soldier, is he not? He’s probably had enough near-death encounters that he’s resigned to it by now.”

“Plus he said that he had been making contingency plans…” Maxwell was mostly talking to himself, but after a moment his eyes narrowed and he looked back at Dorian. “Did you know he wasn’t taking lyrium?”

_ Kaffas _ . “He’s what?”

“He’s deliberately going through withdrawal to see if he can survive it.” Maxwell’s irritation at the entire thing was obvious. “He told me last night. But you fought him not a month ago, and he nearly beat you.”

“But he didn’t.” It was important to emphasize the small victories, if nothing else.

“But he nearly did.” The Inquisitor’s gaze was hard. “Are you telling me you didn’t suspect anything was strange about the fight? He can’t have used any of his Templar abilities normally if he’s been without lyrium for this long.”

Dorian did not enjoy lying to Maxwell. He had very few friends in the world, and risking the anger of any of them was a dicey proposition on the best days. But given that the Inquisitor was already angry at Dorian for his handling of Cullen... “I can’t say that I did. He seemed entirely capable. I assumed he was just avoiding using his abilities to be spiteful and ruin my little experiment. I certainly wasn’t going to beg him to Smite me.”

That seemed to satisfy Maxwell, who relaxed fractionally and looked away. “It was one of his conditions for staying in the Inquisition. I can’t order him back onto the lyrium now.”

“Would you?”

“I don’t know!” Maxwell scratched at the Anchor on his hand, a nervous tic he’d developed. “I don’t want him to die, Dorian. I don’t want any of you to die.”

Dorian leaned forward and patted him on the knee. “And so far, none of us have. Cullen won’t be dying any time soon, thanks to your efforts. I can monitor him for you?”

A little obsequious, but he  _ was  _ trying to apologize, after all.

Maxwell sighed and nodded. “Yes. Keep me updated, especially if he seems sick.” He looked at Dorian again, his expression searching. 

It made Dorian uncomfortable enough that he asked, “What?”

“I know that you deliberately cultivate the big, scary blood mage persona,” Maxwell said, “but that’s not what you’re like most of the time.”

“Shh, don’t say it out loud, someone will overhear!”

“I’m serious, Dorian. You’re kind-”

“Bite your tongue.”

“-and you’ve always been a good friend to me. If you had just shown some of that to Cullen during the ritual, surely he would have…” Maxwell trailed off, looking sad and helpless.

The Inquisitor really was like a dog with a bone when he had something on his mind. Dorian smoothed a hand across his mustache, trying to find the words to explain the white-hot fury he’d felt at Cullen’s spiteful, sneering refusal to just let Dorian save his damned life already.

“I was kind and rather gentle with him,” he finally said, “and the moment the spells for mind control were deactivated, he tried to choke me.”

If they had been able to keep those spells active for the entire ritual, everything would have turned out so much better. But according to Solas, leaving them active risked turning Cullen into a compliant bed warmer permanently. Which would have been  _ fine _ , in Dorian’s opinion; he was certainly less of a prick that way. 

“And so you just leapt straight into ‘Mwahaha you’re my sex slave now’?” The Inquisitor’s gaze was surprisingly intense sometimes, blue eyes sharp and missing nothing.

“ _ Fasta vass _ ,” Dorian sighed. He had never wanted to explain this part of himself to Maxwell. He thought for a moment, working out the best way to phrase it all. “As you no doubt have heard from your dear Josephine, I have a reputation in Tevinter for being quick to anger and vengeful.” 

Maxwell nodded.

“That’s also a deliberately cultivated persona,” Dorian explained, “designed to frighten magisters who would otherwise see me as weak because of my policies. Cultivating it has been...I did not earn that reputation by being kind, Max.”

“What does this have to do with Cullen?”

“Feuds in Tevinter can go on for generations. Collateral damage can and does include spouses, children, lovers, pets, and favored slaves. I’ve no wish to indulge in any of that and kill a half-dozen innocent people who have the misfortune to be related to the wrong idiot.” He steepled his fingers on his knee, to keep himself from fidgeting. “And so I have made it a policy to strike once, very hard, out of proportion to the insult I’ve received. I’ve found that if I strike hard enough, viciously enough, most of my would-be enemies quickly decide opposing me isn’t worth the trouble. That lets me focus on the real threats. It has become my instinctive solution to most problems, especially the dangerous ones, and I...tapped into that when dealing with the commander.”

“When you say that you strike viciously, what does that mean?” Maxwell’s voice was curious, but not condemning. Not yet, anyway.

Dorian swallowed, smoothed out his facial features to hide his wince. “A few months before I came south, there was an altus who ran several fighting rings in Qarinus. My proposed laws about letting slaves earn their freedoms in fighting pits would have threatened the way he did business. He began making noise about opposing me, bringing me down a peg, that sort of thing.”

“And?” Maxwell prompted, when Dorian stopped speaking.

“And so I poisoned his daughter.” Dorian ignored the way Maxwell inhaled sharply. “It was easy enough to do. She was young, only about 13, and inexperienced at watching her drink during parties. I waited a few hours, letting her writhe in agony and allowing her adoring father to realize he was going to watch her die. Then I gave him the antidote.”

Maxwell just stared, wide-eyed.

“My point was firmly made,” he continued, trying to pretend the look of horror on the Inquisitor’s face didn’t make him feel like dirt. “He could continue opposing me, and I would kill his entire family, starting with the ones he liked the best, or he could end this attempted feud before it started and gain me as an ally.”

“And what happened?”

“He was a reasonable man who understood that he was picking fights he couldn’t win. He shut his mouth, and opposition to my legislation faded to a whisper.”

“And his daughter?” Maxwell had that angry, watery look in his eyes that Dorian remembered from the dark future.

“She made a full recovery, thanks to the antidote, and I sponsored her for admittance to one of our more prestigious music academies. She’s apparently very skilled at the harp.” Dorian shrugged. “I’ve never seen the appeal myself, but string instruments are often a matter of personal-”

“Don’t do that,” Maxwell said, shaking his head. “Don’t pretend that you don’t know what you just said.”

Dorian sighed, rubbing a hand across his forehead. “I was serious when I told you that my homeland was a warning, not an ideal, Max. Our magisters treat lives as currency, to be traded or stolen as needed. The difference between us and the Orlesians is that the Orlesians are only human, limited to the power they can wield with daggers, poisons, and armies. Mages can reshape the world itself, given time. Whether I like it or not, that is the world I live in. I could choose between doing nothing and being safe or fighting for change and being a constant target.”

Once, he had not been so quick to anger, so effortlessly ruthless. It had been easy to be kind, and he never felt like his mind was a knife constantly seeking a target. But that was before his father had tried to- 

Dorian shook his head, shaking away the dark thoughts. He was needed in the present. The Inquisitor’s shoulders were slumped, and he looked much older and more worn down than he had any right to. “Is that the future I have to look forward to, then? Spending the rest of my life waiting for a backstab-”

“No,” Dorian said firmly, leaning forward and squeezing Maxwell’s knee. “The difference between the two of us is that I am alone in a very dangerous spotlight. You may be the one in the spotlight, Max, but you are surrounded by allies to look out for you.”

The Inquisitor just looked at him, still hangdog and sad.

“Your allies, your friends, they are some of the best.” Dorian offered him a smile. “And anyone trying to stab you, from the front or the back, will have to go through the big, scary magister. Of that, I can assure you.”

That made Maxwell smile, just a little. “You’re a good friend, Dorian.”

“I would venture to say that I’m the best friend anyone could have, ever.”

That was enough to make Maxwell chuckle, and Dorian was glad to see him in better spirits. Maxwell rested his hand on Dorian’s and squeezed gently. “Try and be a good friend to Cullen?”

Dorian grimaced. “Cullen and I aren’t friends.”

“Then try to be  _ nice _ ?”

Groaning in a terribly put-out way, Dorian agreed. He was really feeling quite pleased with himself when he left Maxwell’s quarters after a few more moments of chit-chat. He had not been thrown out of the Inquisition on his ear, even after Maxwell found out how rough Dorian had been with his favorite ex-Templar. Things were going rather well, considering-

Dorian’s thoughts and his steps slowed to a halt as he came down the staircase to discover Rutherford was waiting for him. That was a genuine surprise. He’d expected the commander to hide in his tower for the rest of the day. He had changed trousers, Dorian was amused to note, and strapped his sword onto his hip.

There was no amusement in Cullen’s face as he met Dorian’s eyes. “We need to talk. Privately.”   



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in time for the holidays: blood magic flashbacks, snuggling, and both of our heroes getting a POV!

The quarters Pavus had chosen for himself were a quick walk from the library, overlooking the gardens from the second floor. Located along a busy hallway, Cullen noticed, where it would be hard for would-be assassins to ambush him without witnesses. It also meant there would be plenty of witnesses to Cullen stopping by Dorian’s quarters, but he was the bloody Commander of the Inquisition and could go where he liked. Anyone foolish enough to ask after it would soon regret it.

The mage’s living space was decadent, which did not surprise Cullen in the least. The merchants in Skyhold who sold useless fripperies like gilded mirrors and silk pillows and fourteen different perfumes must have been delighted to have him around. A mountain of books liberated from Skyhold’s library were piled haphazardly on a small bedside table. The larger table, with two chairs flanking it, was apparently Dorian’s makeshift desk. It was covered in a small forest’s worth of loose paper, which had been shoved dangerously close to the edge to accommodate a serving tray. On it were the half-eaten remains of Dorian’s breakfast. Cullen spotted dates, grapes, several types of baked rolls, and a carafe of wine despite the fact that it wasn’t even noon.

“Have a seat.” Dorian gestured to the chair closest to the door.

“Why lie to the Inquisitor?” Cullen asked, once they were both sitting at the table.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Maker’s breath, mage, can you stop with your stupid games for even a minute? Why did you not tell him about the last set of commands you left me with?”

“Maxwell doesn’t need to know every small detail,” Dorian said, shrugging carelessly and popping a date into his mouth. “And he’s not the one who has to deal with you and your incessant scowling in his dreams.”

Cullen gave a matching scowl in real life. “So it was done out of the goodness of your heart and your firm respect for my privacy?”

Dorian smirked over the rim of his wine glass. “Your skepticism wounds me. We can always go and tell him the truth, if the lie weighs so heavy on you.”

Grimacing, Cullen looked away. “What do you want? In exchange?”

“Not much one for foreplay, are you?” 

“Unlike you, I get no real pleasure from chattering like a bird just to let the entire world know that I can speak.” Cullen crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, staring Dorian down. “Now, what do you want?”

Dorian took another sip of his wine and eyed him, making no effort not to be lascivious. “I want to see it.”

“It?” 

“My final bit of insurance in the ritual, to keep you from getting overly mouthy in the real world,” Dorian explained. “The part we didn’t tell the Inquisitor about. I’d like to see what happens if you trigger it, so to speak.”

Cullen felt sweat break out along the back of his neck. “We--that’s--there’s no reason to-”

“There are plenty of reasons to.” Dorian smirked. “Would you prefer to accidentally trigger it one day in the middle of the great hall?”

“I hate you,” Cullen muttered, a heavy sinking feeling in his gut.

“Right there, in front of everyone, and had you simply been an adult about it and done this with me now, you could have-”

“Shut up!” Cullen felt the roots of a migraine gathering behind his eye sockets. “Fine. We do this  _ one time _ , so that I know the warning signs and so that you can feel like you’ve won some perverse victory. And then it is never mentioned to the Inquisitor, ever. Are we clear?”

This day had already been exquisitely humiliating, after all. He might as well just cram every bit of embarrassment into one twenty-four hour period.

“Like crystal.” Dorian’s smile showed teeth. “Tell me, Commander, if the only way to bring you out of this altered stated is the same method as last time-”

“Then order it and be done with it,” Cullen snapped, shoulders hunching. His cheeks flared red at the memory of the Inquisitor watching him--at least this would be slightly more private.

“You wouldn’t prefer something a little gentler, this time around?” 

“Not with you.” Cullen’s upper lip curled with disdain.

“Now that isn’t very  _ sweet  _ of you.” Dorian’s grin became sharp-edged and cruel. He sat back in his chair, slinging his free arm over the back of it and crossing a leg over his knee. “No time like the present, eh?”

Cullen closed his eyes, gathering himself. He had no idea what he was doing and he hadn’t the faintest clue what to say. He tried to remember Dorian’s exact words, but his memories of the ritual (or at least, the important parts) weren’t nearly precise enough. Did he have to specifically berate Dorian for being a blood mage, or would just berating him in general be enough? Both were fairly easy, but-

“I’m waiting,” came the irritating, sing-song voice of the man responsible for both saving and ruining his life.

“Andraste’s mercy, you are the most annoying person I’ve ever met!” Cullen opened his eyes to glare at Dorian, who looked quite pleased with himself. That was a starting point, he supposed. “You want insults? Fine. You are the most smug, unlikable blood mage I have ever had the displeasure of not being able to Smite.”

Dorian just raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t even think you left Tevinter, I think they threw you out for being an irritation and now we’re just forced to deal with you, the same as Corypheus. Maybe you’re Tevinter’s revenge for breaking the back of their empire all those centuries ago, and Skyhold having to deal with your preening is their revenge on Ferelden specifically.” 

While the ghosts of his mother and everyone else who’d ever tried to teach him manners were no doubt appalled, there was something oddly freeing in letting loose with his anger. Cullen felt lightheaded with it, almost dizzy.

“You like to play the big, scary magister, but all you’re really doing is hiding behind the Inquisitor’s skirts,” Cullen continued, leaning forward. Each word made him feel a little lighter, a little more bubbly. “He lets you because he thinks you’re handsome and alluring, the same way nobles favor useless, gilded weaponry because it’s shinier than a simple dagger. And just like a sword made from solid gold and sapphires, you will snap in the middle of battle one day and end up stabbing him in the face. No blood mage I’ve ever met has been more than three bad minutes away from going absolutely howling mad.” 

The corner of Dorian’s mouth quirked into a smile, and he lifted his wine glass to swirl it thoughtfully before taking a sip. “Oh, do go on.”

The room was spinning now, like he’d drunk too much ale, and Cullen felt an actual  _ giggle  _ building in the back of his throat. As warning signs went, those were reassuringly obvious. He could stop now, if he wanted to. But the point was to plunge forward, to see what the outcome would be if he didn’t stop. Plus, he’d worked up a good momentum on his rant.

“You are dangerous and vain and manipulative, and not nearly as smart as you think you are, and it's only a matter of time before Skyhold ends up full of demons that you’ve summoned,” Cullen was swaying now, holding onto the table to keep himself upright.

With a laugh, Dorian said, “You’re so close, Commander. I know you have a limited vocabulary, but keep going.”

“And you’re a wretched, evil bastard for doing this to me, I hate you, I  _ hate _ \--ahh!”

It was like a starburst behind his eyes, the light, bubbly feeling reaching some sort of peak. Open-mouthed and gasping, Cullen slid from his chair onto the floor, bracing himself on his hands and knees as the world spun wildly around him. 

Oh, he felt so  _ good _ . 

“Cullen?” 

Cullen looked at Dorian, who was now staring down at him, and giggled. He shook his head, tried to speak, and giggled again. He finally managed, “Sorry! Sorry, I just feel very strange!”

“Imagine that.” Dorian smirked and leaned forward, tilting Cullen’s chin up with one finger. “Describe it to me, won’t you?”

“It’s a little like being drunk, I suppose?” Cullen couldn’t stop smiling, staring at Dorian’s face in delight. Maker’s breath, but he was pretty. If he had to be enslaved to a Tevinter magister, at least they’d given him to the loveliest one in the entire empire. “It’s not bad, though. I don’t feel sick or even dizzy anymore.”

“Mmm, so euphoria, preceded by dizziness?” Gripping his chin gently, Dorian turned his head, like he was inspecting Cullen’s face for something.

“And lightheadedness, but that’s mostly gone and now I’m just happy.” Cullen grinned up at him. “Happier than I think I’ve ever been? Probably for at least a decade. It’s  _ very  _ strange.” 

Dorian laughed. “Well, that’s telling. Could you be a lamb and fetch me a new quill and ink bottle out of that drawer over there? I’d like to record the ‘symptoms’ while they’re all fresh.” 

Cullen nodded and sprang to his feet, rummaging through the indicated drawer until he found a quill and sealed ink bottle. He brought both to Dorian and then knelt again at his feet. He found he couldn’t help but smile up at him; it seemed as natural as breathing. 

“All right, describe how it felt when you were going on that charming little tirade against me?” Dorian said, grabbing one of the sheets of paper strewn across the table like fallen leaves. 

Obediently, Cullen described feeling lightheaded and dizzy, then the strange bubbly sensation that had grown ever stronger until it overcame him completely. 

“On a scale of one to ten, one being nonexistent and ten being…” Dorian trailed off as Cullen’s stomach rumbled loudly, and he raised an eyebrow. “Hungry?”

“I suppose,” Cullen said, shrugging. “I haven’t eaten this morning.”

“Why not?”

“I was nervous.” It wasn’t something he would have normally admitted, and certainly not to Dorian. But now, in this blissful state, there was no reason not to. “The withdrawals can make it hard to keep food down anyway. I didn’t want to risk it.”

With a sly smile, Dorian reached over to the serving tray and plucked a grape loose. He offered it to Cullen like he was offering a treat to a dog under a table. Cullen reached out, grabbed it, and popped it into his mouth.

“If you want me to eat it out of your hand, you’ll need to make that an order,” he said, the sweet juice coating his tongue. He laughed when Dorian startled at his words. “You’re a little more predictable than you think, Magister Pavus.”

“And even now, you’re still fairly lippy,” Dorian sniffed. But he seemed amused despite himself, eyeing Cullen up and down with something besides condescension. “So it really is still you in there? Albeit a considerably friendlier you.”

Cullen shrugged. “I suppose? I don’t feel like I’m someone different.”

“No?” Dorian grabbed a roll dotted with poppyseeds and tore it in half, holding it out to Cullen just as he had the grape. “With your mouth, then, Commander.”

Smirking, Cullen leaned forward and took the morsel of bread. He made no effort to keep his lips from dragging against Dorian’s fingers, even licking a crumb off the tip of Dorian’s thumb before settling back on his heels.

“No hesitation at all,” Dorian observed, licking his own lips. “Obedience suits you.”

Cullen squirmed, the heat in Dorian’s gaze kindling the fires in his own blood. 

“You are enormously tempting, kneeling there and looking up at me with big doe eyes.” Dorian drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, never looking away from Cullen. “And I have never been good at resisting the sort of temptation you offer.”

“Then don’t,” Cullen murmured, breathless. Between the giddy joy and the intensity of Dorian’s stare, he felt drunk. His memories, ever helpful, reminded him of just how pleasant it had been to have Dorian looming over him in the Fade, cheerfully taking him apart. He was half-hard already, the fabric of his breeches an uncomfortable pressure.

Dorian laughed, sounding a little breathless himself. “You might be more of a menace this way than in any other state.” He was silent for a long moment, his eyes lingering on Cullen’s face, before he said, “Ah, but I promised to behave."

**\-- DORIAN --**

Commander Rutherford was lovely. Well, physically, anyway. He had the personality of a chipped knife, but Dorian hadn’t wanted to fuck his personality. And now, with the snarlier edges of him sanded off, he was truly a feast for the eyes as he knelt at Dorian’s feet.

This was all Maxwell’s fault. 

Dorian’s crest was literally branded on Cullen, for Andraste’s sake. The gold and black scales of an impossibly sinuous viper peeked out from the cuffs of his shirt, with one loop around his throat like a collar and another dipping across his right eye before disappearing into his hairline again. Dorian had never possessed any particular fetish for tattooed men, but this ‘tattoo’ glimmered with bits of the Fade, each inch of it as personal to Dorian as his own handwriting. It was an absolutely intoxicating mark of ownership, and Cullen wore it without even understanding how blatant it was to every mage who saw it.

_ Kaffas _ , he needed to stop thinking about it.

“Ah, but I promised to behave.” 

He stood, grabbing a small writing board along with the notes he had been taking. Moving to the bed, he arranged his papers on the nightstand before looking up at Cullen again.

Cullen, who hadn’t moved. The Inquisition’s Commander, kneeling obediently where he was told, wearing Dorian’s marks and waiting for his orders. 

He  _ really  _ needed to stop thinking about it.

“Grab the tray and have some food, if you’d like,” he said, toeing off his boots before climbing cross-legged onto the bed. “No need to stay kneeling. Sit comfortably.”

There, he was being  _ nice _ , just like Maxwell had asked. Dorian would take notes over here, Cullen would eat over there, and no one would end up face down and arse up.

When Cullen plopped the tray down next to him on the bed, Dorian boggled at him.

“What are you…”

“You said I didn’t have to kneel,” Cullen said, far more chirpy than he would ever be in his right mind. But there was mischief in his smile. “I want to be by you.”

The twist of emotion in Dorian’s chest was painful, and he couldn’t truly identify it. Scrambling for a response, he settled on, “Well, fine, but don’t distract me. And take your boots off, these sheets are silk.”

There, that was reasonable, was it not? Dignified, in control, not at all flustered by seeing Cullen beaming at him like a ray of sunshine personified. Obediently, Cullen removed his boots and shin guards, and then his swordbelt as well. Dorian eyed him.

“It’s easier to sit without it on,” Cullen said, all faux-innocence.

Dorian shook his head, smiling a little. This version of the Commander was dangerous in a completely different way than the normal version. He was used to Cullen growling and snarling like an ill-trained hound. He had no idea what to do with a Cullen who was happily buttering a roll and staring at him with something like adoration.

_ ‘My sweet little pet.’ _ Damn it all, this was his own fault, which was the worst kind of problem. He swallowed and turned his attention back to his notes, recording the bits he thought relevant. He was midway through ‘decreased aggression’ when Cullen murmured, “Move.”

Confused, Dorian looked up to discover that Cullen was stretching himself out to  _ lay his head in Dorian’s lap _ .

“Oh no, no, none of that!” Dorian said sharply.

But Cullen, damn him, simply muscled his way into position anyway and stared up at Dorian with a pleased, smug smile. “I’m getting comfortable.”

“You would  _ never  _ do this if you were in your right mind,” Dorian reminded him, feeling an echo of the confused panic he’d felt when Cullen pinned him down in the Inquisitor’s quarters.

Cullen seemed to ponder that, then shrugged and tossed a grape into the air, catching it easily with his mouth. “No, that’s true. But I suppose that’s what you get for performing blood magic on me.”

Eyes narrowed, Dorian said, “I think I want you to go back to being afraid of me.”

Still smiling, Cullen just said, “Unfortunate,” and set about eating the roll he’d buttered. He made no signs of moving.

_ Stared down by my own blood magic thrall, _ Dorian reflected, absolutely not pouting as he continued to write notes.  _ Truly a fine day for you, Lord Pavus. _

Once Dorian felt he had made enough notes to sufficiently summarize Cullen’s current state (and once he had circled and underlined ‘obedient, but only when he wants to be?’), he turned his attention back to Cullen. Cullen had eaten the remaining rolls and fairly demolished the bunch of grapes in the meantime. He seemed entirely comfortable with his head in Dorian’s lap. Each time he breathed out, it briefly fogged up the nearest buckles. Dorian couldn’t stop himself from licking his lips.

Cullen was an entirely different creature when he was relaxed. Gone was the rigidiness and nearly palpable iciness that he normally radiated whenever Dorian was around. Instead, he looked boyish, a small smile curving his lips up. His eyes were warm, the pupils dilated, and when he saw Dorian watching him, he nosed against the mage’s stomach like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Finished?” Cullen asked, his tone as warm as his gaze.

How was Dorian supposed to resist this gift that had literally plopped down in his lap? Carefully, waiting to see if Cullen would bolt, Dorian ran his thumb gently across his cheekbone where the scales of his crest glimmered bright. Cullen leaned into his hand, his eyes half-lidded. His face was so open, so trusting.

And then, as abrupt and strangling as a sudden frost in the springtime, Dorian thought:  _ Did I look like that when my father did his ritual? _

With a sharp inhale, Dorian yanked his hand away and closed his eyes, briefly blotting out Cullen and the lovely little room in Skyhold entirely. He had avoided thinking about his father since...well, since the day after he’d murdered him, really. But especially since he’d come south. 

His memories of the attempted ritual were vivid but not comprehensive, like his mind had painted exquisitely detailed portraits of some of the worst moments and left everything in between a blur. One second, he was being dragged out of his room by the slaves, unwilling to use his magic against them. Another, he was being strapped down to a table. Another, his father was standing above him, face twisted with grief and determination in equal measure.

Blood. A steel knife against the soft skin of his father’s inner elbow, cutting it like ripe fruit. Then the scent of copper, and magic, and a feeling like  _ fingers  _ in his mind-

It had not been a conscious decision on Dorian’s part to struggle so hard that his wrists bled. That had been animal instinct, nothing more. When he  _ used  _ that blood, though, it had been deliberate. It was like standing at the edge of an abyss, watching as his father plunged over it while declaring it was all for Dorian’s good. Beneath the fear, Dorian had been so angry that he felt like his blood was boiling. It had been so easy to grasp the power pouring from him. 

Then it had been Halward’s blood boiling, quite literally.

The portrait in his mind: his father’s face trapped in a rictus grimace, blood oozing black and smoking from his eyes, his nose, his ears. A scream trapped in his throat. His face lit by fire as Dorian burnt away the restraints keeping him on the table. His magic still scrabbling in Dorian’s brain like a rat in a bucket.

He should have stopped then. The right thing to do would have been to stop, to get Halward to a healer, or at least send the slaves for one. But that night, Dorian found he had no taste for ‘the right thing’ when his very soul was screaming in betrayal. So he had reached out with his magic, with the blood that he now controlled, and he’d wrenched Halward’s neck to the side so sharply that the wet  _ crack! _ of breaking bone was audible even over the muffled screams.

When the bloodlust faded and he could no longer taste copper on the back of his tongue, Dorian had sobbed over his father’s corpse for the better part of an hour. But some things could not be undone. Some lines could not be uncrossed.

“You went away,” came Cullen’s voice, jerking Dorian back into the present with a thud.

Still sprawled across his lap, Cullen looked at him with visible concern. Dorian blinked down at him, feeling suddenly panicked.

“Get off me.”

Cullen, though, wasn’t stymied. Gently, each movement carefully telegraphed, he reached up to cup Dorian’s cheek in one cold hand. His voice was soft, like he was talking to a frightened animal. “Bad memories?”

Dorian just nodded sharply, feeling badly off-kilter in the face of this...this kindness. He had not asked for it, nor wanted it, and it was none of Cullen’s-

“I have them too,” Cullen continued, stroking his thumb along Dorian’s cheek. “Like waking nightmares. You aren’t there, wherever it is. Skyhold is a safe place.”

And horribly, unforgivably, an actual  _ sob  _ wrenched itself out of Dorian before he could choke it down. It had been years since that kind of weakness had managed to creep out of him, and here he was, sniffling in front of the Commander of the Inquisition like a stupid child. “I-”

“I can get up, if you’d like me to,” Cullen said, still gentle, “or we can stay here for a little while.”

The dignified thing would have been to haul himself to his feet and shove Cullen off his lap. That would have been sensible.  _ Dorian  _ was in control here, not Cullen. But...

“You are, in fact, terribly sweet like this,” he said, rather than ordering Cullen off of him.

That made Cullen smile. Maker, but that smile was dangerous.

“These waking nightmares that you have,” Dorian queried, “are they...are they similar to what your mind conjured up during the ritual?”

Sadly, that erased Cullen’s smile entirely. His brow furrowed, and he nodded.

“Is-”

“I will tell you about it if you ask,” Cullen said, his expression grim for the first time since the spell had taken hold of him. “I think I’ll tell you anything, when I’m like this. But I don’t like to talk about it. Ever.” 

Dorian ran a hand through Cullen’s hair. It was naturally curly when he didn’t straighten it, or when it was tousled. He had first noticed it when the commander had been dying, but it hadn’t really registered until Cullen was sprawled in his lap. It was an uncomfortably intimate thing to know about him.

“Let’s save that discussion for another day, then.”

That brought the smile back. “Thank you.”

“I suppose I ought to test whether there is a way of bringing you back to your senses that doesn’t involve an orgasm,” Dorian mused.

“Well, you don’t  _ have  _ to.” Cullen said it as though he hadn’t sneered with disgust at the idea of sex with Dorian a mere half hour ago. 

“Ha! How nice to see proof that you aren’t immune to my charms. No one truly is, you know. Still, as a matter of academic curiosity…”

Dorian studied the ‘tattoo’ across Cullen’s face, noting the way it glittered with the Fade. That was surely significant, wasn’t it? Why would the creators of the ritual take the time to interweave small bits of the Fade if there wasn’t a purpose to it? And even if it was some sort of accidental side effect, the way Solas had implied, maybe there was still a use?

He rested his fingers on Cullen’s forehead, where the scales dipped into his hair. “I’m going to try something.”

Magic was complex, obviously, and mastering it was the work of decades. But in many ways, it was also a simple thing, a burst of emotion given form. It was no coincidence that for most mages, their first manifestation was a flare of fire when they were angry or a flash of lightning when they were startled. Before a mage truly learned to control his magic, the most reliable way to summon it was to  _ feel  _ very hard at something. It was still second nature for many of the most simple spells. Dorian focused on that simple, instinctive knowledge, artless but effective.

_ Undo _ . It was the same push of emotion that would snuff out a flame he’d conjured or dispel a simple illusion. He hadn’t even really expected it to work. But Cullen’s tattoo briefly flared with Fade, every fleck of it illuminating. When the light faded, Cullen gasped, going rigid as a board and looking terrified.

**\--CULLEN--**

Reality crashed back down around him, like being suddenly dunked into icy water. He was lying with his head in Pavus’  _ lap _ . Cullen rolled sharply, uncoordinated, and tumbled off the bed and onto his knees with a thud.

That had-he had-

When Dorian had ordered him to beg this morning, Cullen had felt wild with need, out of control, like a fire roaring upwards at the sky. But this other state, the one he’d just experienced, it had sent him wild with...with joy. Happiness. Delight. All the peace and contentment of a dose of lyrium, accompanied by an overwhelming feeling of bubbly warmth. It had been all the universal cheer and friendliness that came with getting drunk, but his mind had been clear and focused entirely on Dorian.

Cullen had never felt anything like it. How long had it been since he had felt effortlessly happy and unburdened?  _ Had  _ he ever felt that, after Kinloch?

Above him on the bed, he heard Dorian moving, and he braced himself. Whatever insults the mage had been cooking up while watching Cullen bat his eyelashes and smile vapidly would no doubt be devastating. He curled his fingers into the rug, not looking up.

They were just words. He would survive them. It didn’t matter that the sudden emotional whiplash had left him feeling as delicate as cracked pottery and just as close to falling apart. He was certainly not going to cry in front of a damned magister.

When Dorian knelt on the ground in front of him, Cullen nearly leapt out of his own skin.

“You’re flushed.” Dorian said mildly, like it was a simple observation of the weather. “Embarrassment from eating my entire breakfast in front of me with no remorse, perhaps?”

That surprised a snort out of Cullen, and Dorian smiled in response.

“There. You looked like you were expecting a beating.”

They were face to face, this way, and Cullen sat back on his heels. “I-I didn’t-it wasn’t-none of that was what I e-expected.”

“Nor I,” Dorian agreed. “But it  _ was  _ interesting.”

“For you, maybe,” Cullen snapped, unsure what to do with Dorian’s unexpected behavior. “For me, it was uncomfortable and degrading and-”

“Well, you certainly looked very comfortable, lying in my lap,” Dorian said with a smirk. “Almost as if my interests and your comfort don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”

Cullen looked away, cheeks blazing red. “Your interests include me at your heel, Pavus, don’t pretend otherwise.”

“It’s a very appealing thing to imagine, yes.” Dorian was using that calm, serious tone Cullen remembered from before the ritual, when he had come to Cullen’s tower in the middle of the night. “It can be appealing for you, too. I don’t enjoy hurting people.”

“You’re a blood mage.”

“Yes, but I’ve already sacrificed the required number of virgins to the Old Gods, so you’re in no danger.”

“I’m not a--” Cullen closed his eyes as he realized he’d just walked into a trap.

Dorian snickered. “You’re very easy to fluster, you know that?”

“Yes, hilarious,” Cullen snarled, already halfway to standing. “Well, this was horrible. Goodbye, ma-”

“Wait, wait, come back,” Dorian said, tugging on his shirtsleeve. “I promise I’ll behave.”

“There’s no reason to-”

“Cullen.” Dorian’s voice was unexpectedly gentle. “We’re going to have to talk eventually. If not now, then when?”

With a snarl of frustration, Cullen dropped back to his knees and leaned against the side of the bed, wishing he could hide under it like a child. He couldn’t look at the mage. His cheeks were red, shame and anger coloring them. 

He could feel Dorian’s eyes on him.

“I meant what I said during the ritual,” Dorian began. Ignoring the way that made Cullen angry enough to finally glare properly at him, he continued, “I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe with me.”

“I’m the farthest thing from ‘safe’ around you,” Cullen spat. 

Dorian sighed. “Fine, if you want to quibble over semantics, you are not  _ in danger _ from me. Staying in the Inquisitor’s good graces means keeping his commander fit for battle, for scheming, and for barking out orders to the troops. None of that is possible if I chain you up like a bed slave and lead you around Skyhold on a leash.”

The idea of it sent a jolt of  _ something  _ shooting down Cullen’s spine, and the accompanying emotions were so tangled and seething that he couldn’t even begin to sort them. “You’re obsessed with leashes. Is that common in Tevinter?”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “I’m just trying to use terms your little Fereldan mind can understand. But my point stands.”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, feeling abruptly tired. “You are sunk into my mind like a fishhook, mage, there are plenty of ways you can hurt me that don’t involve beating me in the middle of the courtyard.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to.” Dorian leaned forward, his voice sincere. “Your position requires you hold the respect of Skyhold and the world at large. Even if I wanted to take that from you, doing so would be suicide. Whatever public humiliation you think I have in store for you, I promise you, it’s not going to happen.”

Cullen stayed silent, studying Dorian the way he would a penned varghest. 

“If you trust nothing else, trust my instincts for self-preservation.” The mage smirked. “You’re an awful actor. If you’re terrified and miserable, it will be obvious to anyone with eyes and probably anyone with ears, as well. Do you think the malcontents here will allow the scary blood mage to torture their beloved golden commander in front of them?”

Pavus had a point, though Cullen was loathe to consider it. Considering it would mean trusting that Dorian was genuinely attempting to help the Inquisition, which felt like trusting that a dragon wasn’t actually going to devour the flock of sheep it had promised to protect. Optimism was not something that came naturally to Cullen, not anymore.

But…

Just a few minutes ago, Dorian could have pressed and demanded Cullen’s secrets. It would have been easy, especially after Cullen had seen him vulnerable in that brief moment. Lashing out would have made sense. But Pavus hadn’t done that. And even earlier, during the ritual, he had-

_ ‘You’re safe here with me. Don’t be afraid, all right?’ _

Dorian had murmured that to him and sank them both headlong into this mess. But there hadn’t been any guile in his words. As clouded as his memories of the ritual were, Cullen could remember that clearly. Pavus had been trying to comfort him, for no other reason than that Cullen was afraid. He could have convinced himself that perhaps Dorian had merely said it to make Cullen more compliant, except...  _ ‘I won’t hurt you. I promise.’ _

“Fine,” Cullen sighed. “Fine. I can...consider the possibility that you might act like a reasonable person sometimes.”

“That’s very big of you, well done.” There was the familiar sarcasm.

“It doesn’t change anything,” Cullen snapped. “The best case scenario is that we go back to ignoring each other, just like before.”

“We can walk in each other’s dreams, Commander,” Dorian pointed out. “I’m not sure ignoring each other would even work.”

“I’m certainly going to try.”

There was a sly look on Dorian’s face.

“What are you smirking about, mage?”

“You’ve forgotten, haven’t you? What I mentioned during the ritual.” 

Maker, but Pavus was so fucking smug. Cullen couldn’t stand it. “Sorry, I was a bit more preoccupied with all your charming threats to fuck me against my will.”

That made Pavus scowl. “There were reasons why-”

“Don’t make excuses for yourself!”

They both glared at each other, neither willing to blink first. It was probably ridiculous looking, given that they were both crouched by the side of the bed like two children telling a secret, but Cullen wasn’t going to be the one to look away

“I like the nice version of you better,” Pavus finally said, his smile sour. “He lets me get a word in edgewise.”

“There is no ‘nice’ version,” Cullen bit out. “There’s me, and there’s the version who is being controlled with blood magic.”

“You may want to cultivate a bit of that friendliness regardless,” Dorian drawled, the smug look from before coming back. “Because as I mentioned, you seem to have forgotten a key part of my instructions during the ritual: you can’t come unless I say so.”

Cullen  _ had  _ forgotten that, actually, or possibly repressed it with every fiber of his being. Blushing fiercely, he said, “Plenty of Templars take vows of celibacy. I’m apparently joining their ranks.”

“Ah, but you aren’t a Templar anymore, are you?” 

Cheeks burning, Cullen began, “If you think for even a minute that you can--can blackmail me into-”

Dorian sighed and held up a hand. “Wait, wait. What if we...resumed this conversation when we’re both a little less emotional? Instead of having a screaming argument they’ll be able to hear from the courtyard?”

That was a calm maturity that Cullen had not been expecting at all, and he drew back slightly, waiting for the catch. But Dorian just watched him evenly. With a hesitant nod, Cullen said, “Fine. But there’s nothing to talk about.”

Rolling his eyes, Dorian stood and offered Cullen a hand. He rolled his eyes again when Cullen ignored that hand and stood on his own.

“Take a day or two, Commander. I will make myself scarce and in the meantime, you can figure out if absolute celibacy is right for you.”

Cullen glared. “We aren’t all hedonists with no self-control.”

Dorian just smirked. “So it shouldn’t be any sort of problem for you, no?”

Refusing to dignify that with an answer, Cullen turned on his heel, gathered his things, and stomped out of Dorian’s room. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very talky chapter, so I hope you guys like exposition. Also, I finally added the 'Magical Tattoos' tag, which I had no idea existed before today. Who says writing fic isn't educational?

If asked, he would certainly not refer to it as ‘hiding.’ Cullen was simply making a tactical decision to stay in his office until Josephine and Cassandra returned and the war council could figure out what in the Maker’s name they were going to tell people. It wasn’t just the Fade markings, although those would need to be addressed. Word that Cullen was dying of red lyrium infection had spread, and the Inquisition needed an explanation for how exactly they had cured an incurable condition.

“Perhaps we could tell them that I actually came down with a terrible case of food poisoning from eating too many Orlesian dishes,” Cullen suggested, grouchy and slightly stir-crazy. The meeting with Dorian had been a day and a half ago, and he hadn’t left his office or his quarters since then. If the hole in his roof hadn’t given him a steady supply of the sky and fresh air, he’d have probably gone mad.

“Orlesian food is renowned throughout the world. We need a sensible explanation.” Leliana sounded amused, though. She had been keeping him company when she was able, and was currently lounging against his bookshelf, reading reports and half-listening to his grumbles.

“Orlesian food uses snails, too much alcohol in lieu of proper sauces, and is overrated in every way.”

“Of course, we can tell everyone you are violently allergic to snails.” She flicked a glance at him over the top of the page, smiling. “And then, when they try to poison you with the snails, you will be unharmed. The solution was right there, all along.”

They had not spoken of the ritual, of the changes Dorian had made to Cullen’s mind. Leliana knew, of course, as nothing happened in Skyhold that she didn’t know about. But she had always been good at knowing when Cullen didn’t want to talk about something. Whatever she’d said to the Inquisitor about doing the ritual remained equally unspoken, but Maxwell had been very glum in her presence when he’d stopped by Cullen’s office earlier.

Cullen was glad for it, and glad for Leliana. For all that she was skilled in flattery, deception, and subterfuge, she was just as skilled at knowing when not to broach a topic at all. Her presence in Skyhold made Cullen feel a little steadier.

Still, the time passed painfully slow, especially when Leliana had to leave to meet with an agent of hers shortly before noon. Cullen’s tower had been declared temporarily off-limits to everyone who wasn’t the Inquisitor or a member of the inner circle, and so the usual background bustle of messengers and guards passing through was absent. It was just Cullen and the small mountain of paperwork that had accumulated while he’d been busy dying.

By two hours past noon, he was staring longingly at the trapdoor. Would it be worth it to haul his papers up the ladder so that he could at least fuss over them under a semi-open sky? The blast of horns announcing returning troops was a welcome distraction, and Cullen nearly strode out the door to check who it was before he caught himself. He peered out the window instead, and was disappointed to see the Chargers in the courtyard below. He’d hoped Josephine and Cassandra had somehow managed to shave two entire days off their trip.

So much for his distraction.

Another turn of the hourglass. Cullen’s eyes were beginning to burn. Damn it all, he’d never realized how often he’d stretched his legs on the battlements until he suddenly couldn’t. When someone knocked at the door, Cullen had to remind himself not to sound too eager. “Enter!”

“Apparently, I missed a whole lot of shit,” was the greeting Iron Bull led with. He closed the door behind him as he came in.

Cullen sighed. “You’re not wrong.”

The chair in front of his desk creaked alarmingly as the Bull settled his considerable mass into it. Even sitting, he towered over Cullen. “How are you doing?”

“Fine, thank you.” The response was reflexive.

Bull laughed. “Okay, noted, now how are you  _ actually  _ doing?”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Cullen leaned back in his chair and considered his answer.

He wanted to like the Iron Bull. He was an easy person to like; every report on his mercenary company painted the same picture of competence and professionalism, and it was clear that his Chargers adored him. He had a warmth about him, a friendliness that belied his intimidating exterior. And much like Cassandra, he was a seasoned soldier. He had seen things that could not be talked about and knew when not to press. The tug of camaraderie was there, and Cullen was always tempted to relax his guard.

Then he would remember that Bull was a self-admitted spy for the Qunari. Cullen couldn’t help but wonder how many of the things he found appealing about the Iron Bull were deliberate disguises that Bull donned and discarded as needed.

“That’s a...complicated question,” Cullen finally said. Then, as much to remind himself to keep a professional distance as it was to change the subject, he added, “I’d imagine this will make an interesting report for the Qun?”

“Oh yeah,” Bull snorted. “Leliana already tore up my first draft.”

“Oh?”

“Eh, it wasn’t my best work any way,” Bull said. “More swearing than was strictly professional. A lot of question marks, a bit too much rambling”

“Will this...I know this is probably a War Table discussion rather than a casual topic, but will this change things for the Qunari? Regarding how they view the Inquisition?”

Bull never seemed bothered by his inability to go more than five minutes without discussing work, another thing Cullen appreciated. With a shrug, Bull crossed his arms over his massive chest. “Can’t say for sure. That kind of thing is nowhere near my responsibility.”

“But if you had to guess?” Cullen pressed.

Bull scratched at the stubble on his chin. “My  _ guess  _ is that no, it probably won’t change anything drastically. Corypheus and his army are the biggest, most current threat there is. The boss is still the only person in the world who can close the rifts. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve overlooked a smaller problem in favor of dealing with the larger crisis.”

‘We’, Bull had said, in the same breath that he’d called the Inquisitor ‘boss.’ It was hard to know what was a slip, what was the truth, and what was deliberate misdirection.

“I suppose that’s a good way to put it in perspective,” Cullen said. “Blood magic and Tevinter magisters  _ are  _ really the smaller problem right now.”

“Plus, it’s kind of…” Bull made a vague gesture, clearly searching for the words. “It’s expected that a  _ bas saarebas _ will run wild, will do damage to the people around him by accident, basically. So this report, hearing that he used dangerous methods to try and do a good thing, it won’t be a surprise to the folks back home, really. It’s what they expect of a mage put in Max’s position.”

“I wouldn’t phrase it that way to Maxwell,” Cullen warned, though he did smile faintly imagining the outraged expression on the Inquisitor’s face.

“Ha! No, I didn’t get this far by being stupid,” Iron Bull chuckled. “I’m definitely going to, ah, massage that language a little bit when explaining it to him.”

“‘Massage the language,’ you sound like Josephine. Angling for her job while she’s gone?” Cullen teased.

Bull shuddered. “There’s not enough gold in the entire world to make me want to deal with nobles all day. I’ll take sealing off entrances to the Deep Roads any time.”

“Speaking of which, let me debrief you while you’re here,” Cullen said, rummaging on his desk for a blank parchment.

The Chargers’ mission along the Storm Coast had gone smoothly. No substantial injuries, twelve darkspawn killed, and two different crumbling entrances to the Deep Roads safely buried under tons of wood and rock again. The darkspawn would eventually dig their way out, of course, but at least this would buy the locals a few years of peace. It would also buy some goodwill towards the Inquisition; with the Grey Wardens vanished and the Chantry in shambles, there were no other organized forces to deal with the darkspawn.

A small grunt caught Cullen’s attention, and he looked up from his writing to see Bull grimacing slightly and shifting position. “Are you all right?”

“Huh? Oh, don’t worry,” Bull said, waving a hand. “I think I pulled something in my back while we were riding. Nothing elfroot can’t fix.” He shifted again. “You mind maybe taking a walk on the battlements while we finish this, though? Sitting aggravates it, and there’s no one in the courtyard but the Chargers.”

It only took a few seconds of deliberating before Cullen gladly seized on the excuse to get out of his office. The blast of cold mountain air as they stepped out the door was such a relief that Cullen couldn’t help but smile. Maker, he hated being cooped up.

True to Bull’s word, the courtyard was mostly empty, only the Chargers close enough to see them up on the battlements. Besides Krem giving a lazy wave, they were entirely content to ignore Cullen and Bull as they unloaded their tack from the horses. Cullen felt a knot of tension in his shoulders unwind. 

Their walk took them down the length of one of the battlements, and on the return trip, Bull leaned against the stone railing at the midway point to yell, “Hey! Skinner! Cullen doesn’t believe you threw a knife  _ through  _ a darkspawn’s hand!”

“That’s not how knives work!” Cullen insisted to Bull. 

Below them, Skinner made some sort of hand gesture that Cullen had seen city elves use before. It did not seem to be a polite gesture. Bull just chuckled, looking down at his company with obvious fondness. 

Shaking his head, Cullen leaned against the stone next to him. “Save your tall tales for Varric.” But he was smiling as he said it.

Iron Bull glanced at him sidelong. “I’m glad you’re still with us. The messages we got from Leliana’s ravens, plus the gossip we heard on the road, it all painted a grim picture.”

“I hesitate to ask what rumors you heard.”

“Pretty colorful stuff. I was assured by three different innkeeps that you had turned into a Behemoth, a leatherworker claimed Corypheus had possessed you, and one healer had a really in-depth conspiracy theory that you had actually been working for the Red Templars the entire time. Nutty as forest nug shit, but detailed.”

“Maker’s mercy.” Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“I’m still kind of surprised the ‘Vint went through with it,” Bull mused. “He didn’t seem like the type to go full stereotypical magister.”

Doubtful, Cullen asked, “We are referring to the same Pavus who has an ‘evil laugh’ that he can break out on command? That magister?”

With a snort, Bull said, “Yeah, that same one. Blood mage or no, the Ben-Hassrath had generally pegged him as a stabilizing influence on Tevinter’s worst tendencies. You know he was the one who successfully talked the Magisterium out of sending a delegation to Kirkwall after the mage rebellion started?”

“Wait, that was a possibility?!” Cullen was appalled. 

“Oh yeah. It was obviously them trying to set up some kind of slow coup, it’s not like they actually give a shit about Southern mages. You know how grabby they are when it comes to the Free Marches.” Bull shrugged. “The sharks saw blood in the water and were circling. Pavus apparently nagged for a full two hours about what a terrible idea foreign intervention was, which is hilarious in retrospect. Still, his side carried took the lion’s share of the vote, and the magisters stayed in Minrathous.”

Grimacing, Cullen tried to imagine the absolute nightmare that post-rebellion Kirkwall would have been with Tevinter magisters added to the mix. “It might not have been that slow of a coup. The city’s roads alone were so damaged that-”

Then he realized belatedly that Qunari intelligence probably did not need an exhaustive list of everything that was barely holding together in Kirkwall. There it was again, that urge to confide in Bull the way he would confide in Leliana, Cassandra, or Josephine. Clearing his throat, he said, “Er, apologies. The topic of Kirkwall tends to make me ramble.”

Iron Bull just watched him, his gaze even. “Yeah, the intelligence reports out of that place made it sound like a real clusterfuck, no offense.”

Cullen paused, not quite wanting to break up the peace of the walk. But technically, Bull had been the one to broach the subject. “Yes, I would imagine the Arishok sent some very detailed impressions before he sacked the city.”

His lips quirking, Bull said, “You’re in some of them, you know.”

That level of honesty was unexpected, and Cullen shifted nervously. “Erm. I suppose that makes sense, I had occasional contact-”

“‘The  _ basvaarad Karasten _ came to the gates again today. He was in a bad mood. We sent him away without speaking to him’,” Bull said, clearly quoting. Then he  _ winked _ . “Imagine that, but for about 70 straight reports, all filed in perfect chronological order.”

Speechless, Cullen stared for a moment. Then he couldn’t help but laugh, the tension of the moment dissipating as quickly as it had come. “I hadn’t realized they made an official report every time Meredith sent me to harass them.”

“Bureaucracy never sleeps, Cullen.” Bull grinned. “It’s why I’m glad my job is mostly to punch things.”

“Were the ones from when I was actually allowed to speak to the Arishok any more interesting?” he asked, curious now.

“Less interesting. ‘The  _ basra  _ came and bleated at me.’ No further details at all. It drove the tamassrans crazy.” 

“What does ‘basra vashedan’ mean?” Cullen asked. “I know  _ basra _ , and  _ vashedan  _ is clearly a curse of some kind, but--why are you laughing, is it that bad?”

Bull was cackling. “Did the Arishok actually call you that? What did you  _ say  _ to him?”

“I was just Meredith’s messenger! What does it mean?”

“It means ‘foreigner trash’."

Cullen’s jaw dropped. “So Garret Hawke - a man who once stopped cart traffic out of Lowtown for an hour because his mabari was napping in the middle of the road - he gets to be  _ basalit-an _ , and I’m just foreigner trash?”

“That was the Arishok’s official word on it, yeah.” Bull grinned from ear to ear.

Shaking his head, Cullen grumbled, “Typical. So very typical.”

He happened to look down into the courtyard just in time to watch one of the Chargers, a Dalish elf, exit the stables and glance up at them. She did a double-take, staring openly at Cullen with a confused expression.

“...your Dalish elf is a mage,” Cullen said flatly.

“Huh? Nah, she’s just an archer.”

Cullen gave Bull an unamused look.

“Yeah, okay, she’s a mage,” Bull admitted. “Sorry, that’s mostly reflex by now. What about her?”

She was still staring, her brow starting to furrow.

“Did Leliana’s messages mention that I have some sort of-of  _ mark  _ on my face that only mages can see?”

Now Bull was staring at him curiously. “She said there were unexpected side effects, but nothing about a mark. What is it, what does it look like?”

Dryly, Cullen said, “Ask your Charger, she’s coming up the stairs.”

The elf was speeding up the steps at a good clip, and just grunted at Bull in acknowledgement as she approached. Cullen opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it.

“Shemlen, what did you let that magister do to your face?”

That was Cullen’s first inkling that the Fade marks were going to be a bigger problem than anticipated.

**\---**

“Maybe you accidentally told Dalish that Dorian had done something?” Maxwell’s voice had a pleading tone to it.

“Boss, I don’t accidentally tell anyone anything.” Bull crossed his arms. “Whatever that thing is, she knew right away that it was Dorian’s doing.”

The emergency meeting in the War Table chamber was tense, to say the least. On one end of the map, Dorian and Solas were flanking the Inquisitor. On the other, Bull and Vivienne stood next to Cullen. Leliana leaned against the long edge of the table, saying nothing.

“Well, that just doesn’t make any sense,” Dorian snapped, looking irritated. “That’s not how magic works. No one can look at a glyph or sigil and just  _ know  _ who cast it.”

“This brand that you left on the commander is neither a glyph nor a sigil,” Vivienne pointed out. “It is something entirely unique and strange.”

“Isn’t it more likely that she just, I don’t know, assumed it had been Dorian who did something?” Maxwell suggested. “Like an inference?”

“She said she knew the second she saw it,” Cullen said, never turning his glare away from Dorian. “That sounds like more than an inference."

“Solas,” Leliana said suddenly, “this was your ritual. What is this?”

Solas grimaced. “This is hardly ‘my’ ritual. Regardless, it...the original purpose of the marks was to signal a claim. It is possible that, even though it was accidentally created, this mark of Dorian’s does the same thing. In the same way that a door can be spelled to seem more welcoming or more menacing to observers, the mark on Cullen may project…”

He trailed off, and Cullen’s voice was a snarl when he said, “Oh, don’t stop now. ‘May project’ what, exactly?”

With a sigh, Solas finished, “Ownership. If I had to guess, the mark projects Dorian’s ownership of you to everyone who sees it.”

There was dead silence following that, everyone in the room looking to Cullen. Cullen, in the meantime, was counting down from twenty to keep from lunging over the War Table.

“You aren’t talking, Cullen,” Maxwell said, timid.

“Because I’m trying not Smite anyone!” Cullen snapped, grinding his knuckles against the table edge.

“Damn it.” Leliana was shaking her head, eyes narrowed in thought. “This will be a problem.”

“You all saw the mark right after it got made,” Bull said. “Why didn’t any of you figure this out then?”

“We all  _ knew  _ it was Lord Pavus’ handiwork,” Vivienne said. Her tone was curious, as if Cullen was an interesting species of butterfly pinned to a table. “We assumed that this knowledge was because we were all aware that he had done the ritual. But it’s possible that any mage who sees this will inherently know that it is his doing.”

“Even mages who have never met Dorian?” Maxwell asked.

“My dear, I’m merely speculating, since apparently none of you were prepared for any unexpected results.”

Solas scowled and Maxwell cringed. Dorian, though, he didn’t look away from Cullen, and Cullen was not looking away from him. It was a wonder the table didn’t burst into flame where their gazes met.

“The only way to properly understand it is to experiment,” Dorian said, his voice calm even as his gaze burnt. 

Vivienne drummed her fingernails on the table for a moment, then said, “Ah, I know just the mages. And an addition, if you’ll permit me a chance to test something, Commander?”

Cullen sighed. “Fine, assuming they can be trusted not to gossip.”

The group moved to Josephine’s office, to ensure that the War Table was kept at least semi-private, and messengers were sent.

The first mage to appear was no longer a mage. Clemence, a Tranquil that the Inquisitor had recruited in Redcliffe, knocked politely at the door and gave a nod to the room at large. “Hello, everyone.”

“Hello, Clemence,” Cullen said, returning his nod. “How has your day been?”

Experience in both Kirkwall and the Inquisition had taught him that it was a good question for the Tranquil. Asking how they felt would obviously not lead anywhere, and the more vague ‘How are you?’ tended to cause confusion. Asking about the general state of the day allowed him to gauge if the Tranquil in question was overworked, or needed a meal, or had been harassed in some way. 

“Productive, Commander. I have inventoried the Nevarrite and Vandal Aria being sent to the Hissing Wastes, and you will find both tallies on your desk. In addition, I am in the process of adding minor healing enchantments to the glass bottles being used to store sun ointment, as requested. This will take slightly more time, as this meeting will delay the process.” Clemence said it all in the pleasant monotone of the Tranquil. It was likely he did not feel any particular curiosity about why he had been summoned to a meeting with the inner council of the Inquisition.

“A delay is fine. Please be sure you have lunch before returning to your work.” Tranquil had a tendency to skip meals when they were deep in a project, but would generally obey a direct order to get food.

“Of course, Commander.” Clemence lapsed into silence.

Cullen nearly started with ‘Apologies for the strange question’, but remembered that the Tranquil would neither notice nor care that a question was strange. Instead, he said, “Clemence, can you see any markings on my face?”

“You have a small scar on your upper lip.”

“Yes, I do. Is there anything else that you can see?”

Clemence stared at Cullen, his eyes briefly narrowing in concentration before relaxing. “No.”

That was apparently all the elaboration they would get, which was fair enough. Cullen nodded again and said, “Thank you, that was the only question that we had. You may return to your duties.”

“Of course, Commander.” And then Clemence walked from the room, his pace unhurried, with no further questions.

“Horrifying,” Solas murmured under his breath.

“He looks better than he did in Redcliffe,” Maxwell said, offering Cullen a smile. “More color in his face, I mean.”

“Like many of our former Templars, the Tranquil tend to do better with a fixed schedule,” Cullen said, fully aware of the irony. “Did that give you what you needed, Vivienne?”

“It did.” Vivienne had been watching the exchange closely. “It seems a sensitivity to the Fade  _ is _ the requirement to see your markings.”

“Did you doubt my theory?” Solas asked, a slight edge of irritation in his voice.

“Your theory was just that: a theory,” Vivienne responded. “With so many unknowns, it would be foolish not to be certain.”

“Cole can also see the markings,” Cullen offered. 

“You’ve spoken with him?”

“He spoke  _ at  _ me,” Cullen said with a shrug. “I understand less than half of what he says. But yes, he’s seen me and he can apparently see the brand.”

Vivienne nodded. “That fits with our understanding of this. Now, Dorian, step into the hall for this next portion.”

Rolling his eyes, Dorian walked to the hallway that connected Josephine’s office to the War Table. “Try not to compliment me too much while I’m gone.”

With Dorian safely hidden, the next mage was ushered in. It was none other than the former Grand Enchanter, Fiona. Cullen gave Vivienne a sour look when he heard her voice, but otherwise did not call attention to himself. Part of the experiment was seeing what conclusions someone would draw on their own, after all.

“Inquisitor,” Fiona said in greeting. “And Madame Vivienne. What brings you down from-”

Midway through what would have been the next salvo in Fiona and Vivienne’s ongoing verbal war, Fiona glanced over Vivienne’s shoulder and saw Cullen. The change in demeanor was instant. She did not have her staff with her, but fire sprang to life in Fiona’s palms as she fell into a fighting stance.

“All of you, get away from the commander, now,” she ordered. “Pavus has done something to him.”

The Inquisitor grimaced. “Well, that answers  _ that  _ question. It’s okay, Fiona, we know.”

Fiona’s eyes remained narrowed, never leaving Cullen. The fire vanished as abruptly as it was summoned, but she did not relax her stance. “What is going on here?”

“You heard that Commander Cullen had been poisoned with red lyrium?” Maxwell asked. At Fiona’s nod, he explained, “There was a...ritual that we did, to save his life. Dorian did the bulk of the spellcasting, and it left this, erm, mark behind.”

“What is it?” Fiona did not move any closer, studying Cullen from a distance like he was a dangerous animal. 

“That’s what we’re trying to determine.” Cullen did not like being talked about like he wasn’t in the room. “Could you describe it for us?”

Fiona raised an eyebrow and glanced at the assembled group. “Is this some sort of joke?”

“Only mages are able to see it.”

Her movements still wary, Fiona stepped closer to look more clearly at Cullen. “It’s a serpent of some kind, or possibly a dragon. Scales and no legs, anyway. The scales are black and gold, and whatever was used as ink is intermixed with the Fade.”

“The Fade was the ink,” Cullen sighed. “How did you know Dorian had created it?”

Fiona opened her mouth to answer, then furrowed her brow. “That...that is an excellent question. I just knew.”

“Can you elaborate?”

Fiona shook her head slightly. “Whatever it is, it is new even to me. If I had to put words to it…” She tilted her chin. “It is like recognizing someone’s handwriting. You know it is theirs, even if there is no distinguishing feature that makes it specific to them. It is like a stamp or a seal.”

Maxwell sighed. “Thank you, Grand Enchanter. This helps. Could you keep silent about this new development until we’ve prepared some sort of public statement? We don’t want the rumors to spin out of control.”

“Of course.” Fiona gave one final, hard look at Cullen, like he was a puzzle needing to be solved. “Let me know if there is anything I can assist with.”

Cullen waited until Fiona was gone before saying, “Really, Vivienne?”

Vivienne was not remotely apologetic. “Now, now, Commander, this served a number of purposes. Fiona feels included in our little secret, making her easier to manage, and since she would undoubtedly be the person any rebel mage went running to if they saw the mark on your face, this simply kills two birds with one stone.”

“Any other mage who had met Dorian would have served just as well-”

“No, I agree with Vivienne,” Maxwell interrupted. “Fiona may not be in the inner circle, but her help will be important once we figure out what we’re telling people.”

“No one is going to care what the mage who signed her people over to a Tevinter magister has to say about another Tevinter magister!” Cullen snapped. 

“ _ Mages _ will care,” Maxwell said, staring Cullen down. “And since mages are the only ones who can see your new snake friend, their opinion will be important.”

“Now is not the time for you two to bicker over the rebel mages again.” Leliana, true to form, had been silent and watchful during the course of the conversation. Someone unused to her habits could easily forget she was there. “Vivienne, who is the third mage you sent for?”

“Enchanter Ellendra,” Vivienne said. “You’ll recall her, Inquisitor. She joined us in the Hinterlands. She has been working with the refugees there until recently, and she was never in Redcliffe. To my knowledge, she’s never laid eyes on Pavus.”

“Bring her in.” Maxwell glanced at him, his expression still irritated. “Unless Cullen has some particular objection?” 

Jaw tight, Cullen just shook his head.

Enchanter Ellendra was a pale, chestnut-haired woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties. She seemed weary, in an inescapable, bone-deep way that Cullen sympathized with. Her initial reaction to Cullen’s mark matched the usual pattern: startled realization, confusion, wary interest. A serpent, she confirmed, black and gold and winding about his skin like a tattoo. 

“Do you have any sense of who might have cast the spell?” Maxwell asked.

Ellendra shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t. There’s usually no way to tell who has cast a spell, unfortunately.”

That caused a ripple of interest through the room, and gave Cullen cause to hope. Perhaps if the ‘ownership’ was only obvious to people who had met Dorian before the ritual, they could salvage this in some way. Behind Ellendra’s back, the Inquisitor nodded to Iron Bull, who stuck his head out into the hallway to summon Dorian. All of it was done very smoothly, casually, with little reason for Ellendra to take notice. 

When Dorian joined them at the War Table, making a show of looking over the Inquisitor’s shoulder at some notes, Ellendra ignored him at first.  _ Please, please, please, _ Cullen prayed, trying his best not to look as desperate as he felt.

But it was all for nothing. Ellendra’s eyes narrowed and she looked at Dorian more closely. Her gaze darted to Cullen’s face, then to Dorian, and back again. Despair rose up in Cullen like a fog as Ellendra stepped closer to him and murmured, “Commander, your question about who made the mark?”

“Yes?” Cullen asked grimly.

“It was him, that mage over there. I don’t know how I know but-”

“But you just know,” Cullen finished, loud enough for the rest of the room to hear.

_ “Fascinating,” _ Dorian said, looking Cullen up and down with interest.

Maxwell sighed deeply. “Thank you, Ellendra. Leliana, could you walk her out and explain things to her?”

“Of course. Inquisitor, we can discuss this later in more detail.” To anyone who didn’t know her, Leliana’s tone would have seemed perfectly friendly.

Cullen waited until the door clicked closed behind them before he looked at Dorian and said, “I’m going to kill you.”

Pavus just grinned, his teeth gleaming. “But then who would you belong to, Cullen?”

“You claim you didn’t do this on purpose, Pavus.” Vivienne’s voice was icy, a contrast to Cullen’s hot fury. “But this is certainly a convenient result for you, isn’t it?”

Maxwell held up his hands. “Whoa, everyone, let’s not start making-”

“So now Solas and the Inquisitor himself can’t be trusted, Madame de Fer?” Dorian sneered. “How many people have to tell you that this was an accident before you’ll believe it? Would the Maker’s word be enough, or-”

“You did it on purpose,” Cullen growled, jabbing a finger at Dorian. “You planned it, somehow,  _ marked  _ me-”

Dorian threw his hands up, frustrated. “We’ve discussed this already, you stubborn idiot-”

“You’re a liar! A blood mage!” Cullen yelled, slamming his fist down against the War Table. “You’ve probably been planning something like this from the very beginning, some way to get your claws into one of us!” 

It was a completely irrational claim, and he knew that, deep down. But every time Cullen pictured the mark, pictured himself with ‘PROPERTY OF DORIAN PAVUS’ tattooed onto him...The maelstrom of emotions in his gut was overwhelming. Sorting through the individual threads was impossible, dangerous work, and so Cullen clung to anger instead, the easiest to manage.

Fury in his eyes, Dorian snarled, “Oh Cullen, sweetling, why don’t you beg me to-”

“No!” the Inquisitor darted forward and clapped a hand over Dorian’s mouth. “Absolutely not!”

Cullen was readying himself to lunge over the table when he felt a hand close around his shoulder and tug gently. Not restraining, not quite, but firm. It was Iron Bull, who had been silent and watching throughout all of the chaos. 

“Probably a good time to take a walk,” he said, his voice low. 

A part of Cullen wanted to throw Bull’s hand off of him and lunge for Dorian’s throat, but his more rational mind had a chance to shake itself free from his panicked fury. He nodded wretchedly and circled the table, resolutely ignoring everyone else in his quest to get outside.

He would thank Iron Bull for his intervention later, when he wasn’t so angry that he could scream.

Maxwell found him in his office about an hour later, throwing daggers at a training dummy. The Inquisitor watched silently for several throws, before finally saying, “Surprised you haven’t painted a mustache on it yet.”

The next knife lodged squarely in the dummy’s forehead, and Cullen was not smiling as he said, “Please leave unless there’s business to discuss.”

Maxwell was quiet again, and Cullen wondered if he really was about to leave. Then he said, “I came here to apologize.”

“You’ve already done that.” Cullen’s voice was icy. 

“To apologize more, then.”

Cullen finally turned to face him. 

Maxwell leaned against a bookshelf, scratching nervously at the Anchor and looking at Cullen with big, worried eyes. “I’m not going to apologize for not letting you die, because it wouldn’t be sincere. I would do it again, if it kept you alive.”

Half of Cullen wanted to bristle and raise his hackles, but honestly, he was very tired at this point. “A new approach to apologizing.”

“But I do want to apologize for thinking...I thought we could do the ritual and everything would be fine. That it would all be just like it was before.” With a sigh, Maxwell stepped closer so he could perch on the desk next to Cullen. “Solas told me there would be unintended consequences that we couldn’t predict. ‘Waves in a pond from skipping a stone,’ he said. Dorian, he warned me too. Even right at the beginning, when I suggested it, he told me that you weren’t going to ever agree and that it was always going to come down to...to forcing you.”

“But you did it anyway.” Cullen’s voice was soft.

“I couldn’t let you die.” Maxwell’s heel knocked against the front of the desk, and he looked as exhausted as Cullen felt. “And I thought--I didn’t  _ want _ to think about what the bigger consequences could be. I wanted to believe that once you were alive and healthy, everything would be perfectly fine and it would just end there. But it didn’t, and it won’t, and you and Dorian are the ones bearing the brunt of it.”

Cullen snorted. “Pavus seems to be doing well so far.”

Maxwell sighed. “I know you don’t like him. And I hoped that would be something that would just go away, too.”

“No.”

“If you get to know him, he really-”

“Maxwell,” Cullen interrupted, “if you want this to be an apology and not a fight, don’t tell me about how much you adore Pavus, all right?”

“...fair enough. Josephine will be here within a day or two,” Maxwell said, reaching out to cautiously pat Cullen on the shoulder. “And if anyone can sort this out, it’s her. I know she can’t make everything right, but I want to make this better for you, however I can.”

Cullen scrubbed a gloved hand across his face. “To be honest, Inquisitor, I don’t know what ‘better’ would even look like in this context.”

“You aren’t alone in that.” Maxwell hopped off the desk. “I’ll take my leave, but...like I said, I’m sorry for all of this.”

Cullen sighed, exhausted but sincere. “Thank you, Inquisitor.”

Still, it was well past midnight before Cullen could finally calm himself down enough to sleep. Not that his sleep was ever especially restful. Still, his nightmares were proceeding along an entirely normal route when Pavus decided to make his entrance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to reader Lazygardener for suggesting Fiona as one of the people to see Cullen's sexy new mark. I had no particular mages in mind, which made the idea of everyone's favorite ex-Warden getting an eyeful too funny to pass up. 
> 
> And for those of you who never had the privilege of hearing Dorian's patented Evil Magister Laugh: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IMFTzVMcirc


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Some flashbacks to non-con (not between Dorian and Cullen) throughout this chapter. There's a lot of Kinloch Hold here.

It was cold, and the stone floor was rubbing his knees and palms raw. It was miserable, but Cullen clung to those sensations with a drowning desperation, because--

The other option was to focus on the Desire abomination fucking him.

It had dragged him out of his glowing purple cage, and Uldred was perched on the stairs to the Harrowing Chamber, laughing like he was watching a performance. A show put on just for him. Cullen supposed that’s what this was, really.

The abomination gave a particularly hard thrust, and Cullen skidded forward, scraping his knees. He grimaced and bit down on his lip to keep from whimpering. Sometimes they liked to hear him, but they hadn't specified anything for this particular...whatever it was. Session. Round.

His cock was limp and useless between his legs, and he was glad for it. When the demons conjured images of  _ her _ , when they made an effort to make him respond, it was so, so much worse. This, right now, the scrape of stone on his bare skin, the sharper pain from where the abomination had not used enough grease to ease the way, the nearly physical weight of Uldred’s eyes on his vulnerable form--

It was awful, but he could bear it. It was pain, but it was a pain he was familiar with.

The abomination thrust again, a new angle. Cullen grunted tiredly, tears tracking down his face. He heard a soft gasp from where Uldred was sitting, and looked up reflexively.

Dorian Pavus sat where Uldred had once been. The mage was wide-eyed, horrified, pale with shock.

Cullen recoiled, tried to scramble away. Screamed as the abomination dug its claws into his shoulder. No, no, no, no no no-

It took several moments of struggling and gasping before Cullen realized he was back in the real world, freed from the nightmare and locked in combat with his bed sheets. It took another five minutes before he could stop panting, swallowing every few seconds to keep himself from vomiting.

He usually dreamed of Kinloch Hold several nights a week, a foul mix of real memories and imagined horrors. Sometimes, it was not quite as vivid, but often it was. There had been nothing new in that nightmare, right up until--

Maker help him, Dorian Pavus. 

What did it mean, that his mind had shoved the blood mage headlong into Cullen’s nightmares? Nothing good, probably. A subconscious reaction to the recent revelations about the Fade mark, perhaps?

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Cullen cradled his head in his hands and took several deep breaths. When he felt steadier on his feet, he rose and went to his wardrobe, pulling on a set of loose trousers and a simple cotton shirt. There would be no more sleep tonight, he knew from experience. It was better to go downstairs and try to get some work done.

He had just settled down at his desk when his door rattled violently. Startled, Cullen wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword where it leaned against the wall. The doorknob shook so hard the entire door vibrated, and then it stopped.

Dorian’s voice was the last thing Cullen expected to hear.

“Cullen!  _ Kaffas, _ I know you’re awake in there, open the door!” A pause. “Please?”

It was the ‘please’ that got him moving, despite the temptation to leave Pavus out there in the cold. Opening the door revealed that Pavus was in a long red dressing gown and his boots, of all things. He had clearly just rolled out of bed, and in other circumstances, it would actually have been funny to see him so disheveled.

“What in the world?” Cullen boggled. “Why are you-”

“Let me in already, it’s freezing out here!” Dorian snapped.

Reluctantly, Cullen stepped aside to let him into his office. A horrible suspicion was growing, made stronger when Dorian looked him up and down like he was inspecting him for injury.

“In my dream, was that…was that actually you?” Cullen asked.

Dorian’s silence was all the answer he needed.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Cullen couldn’t quite meet Dorian’s eyes as he said, “I’ll thank you not to invade my mind any more than you already have, mage.”

“Every night I have been trying to master my little corner of the Fade,” Dorian said, “and nearly every night, I have had some vague sense of you radiating distress, like a--like a scream heard from a distance. Tonight, I finally decided to investigate and-”

“Yes, I was there, I don’t need your summary of it.” He moved behind his desk, more to put it between himself and Dorian rather than out of any desire to sit down.

“Cullen, was that a memory?” Dorian would not be deterred. “It felt solid like a memory.”

Cullen just stared at him, unable to find words.

“By the Maker,” Dorian breathed. 

He looked sad, worried, and that was absolutely intolerable. The idea of Dorian Pavus  _ feeling sorry _ for him was so distressing that even the thought of it made Cullen’s stomach turn.

“Get out!” he snapped. “You’ve seen that I’m not being murdered, so go back to your bed and leave me in peace!”

Dorian moved, but it was towards Cullen instead of out of his office. “What  _ happened  _ to you? That was an abomination, how-”

_ “Stop. Talking.”  _

And something in Cullen’s face must have been dire enough to warn Dorian off, because he went silent.

After a few slow breaths, Cullen felt less like a cracking sheet of ice and could manage to say, “If I was going to discuss it with someone, Pavus, it wouldn’t be you. And that’s all I care to tell you on the matter.”

For a brief moment, Dorian did not speak, and Cullen was hopeful that he would actually take the hint. But of course, that didn’t happen.

“Do you dream like that often?” It was only half a question, and Dorian looked increasingly sure after he said it.

Through gritted teeth, Cullen answered, “I have the occasional nightmare, like everyone else, it doesn’t-”

“You’ve been radiating that same feeling nearly every night that this bond has existed-”

“Leave it alone,” Cullen ordered, his jaw tense. “Leave me alone.”

Pavus opened his mouth as if to argue. Closed it. Then he simply nodded at him. 

“Good night, Commander.”

Then he was gone, and Cullen was alone with his thoughts and his memories.

**\--DORIAN --**

Obviously, Dorian was not going to leave it alone. The mere idea was laughable. If nothing else, he couldn’t abide a mystery when it was so very close to home. It was practically knocking on the door of his mind, after all. He hadn’t been hyperbolic when he described Cullen’s distant, echoing distress as feeling like a scream.

It was apparently time to put all of his nightly practice in the Fade to good use.

When Maxwell had approached him about the elven ritual, Dorian had said yes for a number of reasons. The biggest personal draw had been the promise of an entirely new way of interacting with the Fade. To have the powers of a  _ somniari _ , even limited, was an intoxicating proposition for any mage. And no matter how mad everything else regarding the ritual had become, the shiny new abilities were exactly what had been promised. 

For the past few nights, Dorian had been learning how to shape the Fade. By day, he referenced any texts on  _ somniari  _ that he could acquire. It wasn’t quite the same, of course; a real  _ somniari  _ could venture into any sleeping mind he or she desired, while Dorian was limited to his own and Cullen’s. But the principles behind it were similar, similar enough that he had gained a fascinating amount of control. The Fade responded to him now in a way it never had before, clay in his hands when it used to be intangible mist. It was intriguing, and he could have happily spent the rest of his life seeing what wonders he could conjure had Cullen Rutherford not proved to be such a distraction.

The next night was just the same as the ones before it. Dorian was pulled into the Fade, his own private dreamscape, and there was a tangible sense that Cullen was nearby. As he’d done the previous night, Dorian followed that sense of the commander like a dog tracking a smell. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought he was getting closer to Cullen physically as his awareness of him grew stronger. 

Entering the other man’s mind was a bit like stepping off a pier into a lake; it was very clearly not where he was supposed to be, but slipping in was incredibly easy. The only difference between this night and the night before was that Dorian worked to make himself...invisible, for lack of a better term. The Fade was a realm of feelings, and Dorian did his best to cloak himself in a feeling of ‘Nothing to see here, go about your business.’ He wasn’t sure if it would actually work, but apparently the  _ somniari  _ could do it. It wouldn’t hurt to try.

Cullen’s dream was an absolute horror. It was the same room from the night before, in much the same state. Everywhere Dorian looked, there were bodies, blood, indistinct masses of viscera. Some kind of unholy slaughter had taken place here. Of the bodies, he counted at least four individuals, but there was no way so much gore could have come from so few people. Which begged the question of where the other bodies were, a question Dorian did not really want an answer to.

Once he’d adjusted to the nightmarish scene, he was interested to see a strange, shimmering barrier in place near the staircase. It glowed faintly purple and crackled with magical energy. Drawing closer made it clear that the barrier was effectively a cage, encircling three prisoners completely.

Templars, he realized, though their armor was dingy and blood-spattered enough to obscure the Sword of Mercy. Another step closer brought him directly in front of the cage. None of the Templars inside noticed his presence at all, but Dorian only barely had time to feel smug when he realized that one of the Templars was  _ Cullen _ .

It was not Cullen as he knew him. He was far younger, for one thing, barely out of his teenage years. Or possibly even still a teenager? His face was so  _ young _ , the patchy little beard doing nothing to make him look older. Indeed, the only thing that aged him at all was the profound exhaustion etched into his features, the bags under his eyes so deep they were nearly black. 

This was a memory, Dorian realized. That was one of the first things the writings of the  _ somniari  _ mentioned: a person usually looked the same as their present self when their dream was conjured from their imaginations. Actual memories were more solidly rooted in the past, the details of the Fade around them steady instead of flickering.

The other two Templars, a bearded older man and a middle-aged woman, flanked Cullen in the center of the cage. They leaned against each other almost like puppies huddling for warmth. All of them were careful to keep their limbs curled safely away from the walls of the cage, and Dorian wondered if it delivered some kind of shock or other painful sensation.

He jerked in alarm as the door at the top of the staircase opened suddenly, but his reaction was downright stoic compared to the way all three Templars scrambled to their feet. Each of them wore expressions of badly-concealed terror, and seeing that level of fear on Cullen’s face was so strange. Even in Haven, with the Elder One bearing down on them and no escape in sight, Cullen had seemed more defiant than frightened. The Cullen in front of Dorian now was a trembling child in comparison.

The men coming down the stairs were...well, they were not men any longer. The one on the left was a classic abomination, its skin stretched and distorted by tumorous growths. It still wore mage robes, but it barely had a recognizable face and its arms ended in massive claws. It was as though someone had poured a bag of unevenly shaped rocks into a human skin and then stretched all of the loose flesh. 

The one on the right was far less disturbing, at least visually. It took the form of a bald human man, probably in his 40s. Aside from a smear of blood along his cheek, he looked wholly unremarkable and could have passed for any Circle mage. It was only when Dorian looked closer that he saw the flash of purple in the man’s eyes and noticed the way his hands seemed to naturally form claws in idle moments rather than resting at his side. This demon wore his human host comfortably, like a tailored outfit.

There was something familiar about him, Dorian thought, but he could not place it.

“-tired of playing? I never thought I’d see the day.” The bald abomination had a low, smooth voice, and there was something uncanny about the way it drew out its syllables. 

“Hardly. You know I love the whimpering.” The other abomination had a voice like gravel, its host’s vocal chords clearly damaged. “I’m just suggesting that we might bolster our numbers that way, Uldred.”

The bald abomination, Uldred, laughed. The sound was too deep, booming unnaturally. “There’s no need. By the time the Templars find their balls and try to storm the tower, we’ll have worn the mages down enough to give my servants proper hosts. Not these blind and deaf creatures, barely able to taste the Fade.” 

The pair reached the bottom of the stairs and approached the cage. Their eyes were hungry as they stared at the three Templars huddled within.

“Besides, they bleed so well.” Then Uldred’s hand flashed out, inhumanly fast, and dragged the female Templar through the barrier before the others could react.

The woman wavered on her feet, barely able to stand, her breath coming ragged and fast. Her already pale skin was nearly white. Uldred grinned at her. “You, today. I want to reinforce some of the glyphs.”

A moan of terror was all the woman responded with. The older Templar murmured, “Courage, Annlise, courage,” but there was no strength in his voice. For his part, Cullen simply stared, never taking his eyes off Uldred.

That was when Dorian remembered where he had seen this ‘Uldred’ before. During the ritual, when he finally gave Cullen back his sense of fear, Uldred had been part of the cavalcade of panicked images that twisted the Fade. He had been one of the last to disappear, actually.

Cullen was still terrified of him, even a decade later.

The warped abomination gave a lazy wave and strolled down the hall. When the door opened, Dorian could faintly hear another voice. It was sickly sweet, like a man talking to a lover. “Darling, I’ve picked some daisies! Let me braid them into your hair, you’ll look so lovely. We can make crowns for the children.”

What in the Void had  _ happened  _ to this place? Was it a Circle? Dorian had not paid nearly enough attention any reports out of Ferelden to be able to say for certain when or where this might be.

This would teach him to pay more attention to the barbarians, he supposed.

Uldred ran a fingernail across the woman’s throat, scratching but not cutting. She whimpered again, the whites of her eyes entirely visible. But rather than focus on her, Uldred looked past her to the Templars who were still caged.

“Cullen.” 

Dorian winced to hear Cullen’s name purred that way, but Cullen winced much harder. Dorian saw a tremble begin in his hands. He did not look surprised to be singled out, though. Just terrified and resigned in equal measure.

“Yes?” Cullen swallowed, and in the next breath added, “Master?”

“These glyphs are boring work.” Uldred’s tone was petulant. “I have heard the music of screams, and it is lovely, but there’s more to the world than making Templars wail. Uldred remembers that you had a passable singing voice, when that fool Irving would force me into Chantry services.”

A blending of identities, a confusion between ‘I’ and ‘we.’ That was common in voluntary abominations, ones who had known their hosts well before the possession. Whichever demon wore Uldred, they were old friends.

Cullen said nothing, just staring in confusion and the beginnings of panic.

Uldred rolled his eyes and actually stomped his foot like a spoiled child. “Sing, idiot. Entertain me.”

In the cage, Cullen was frozen, motionless aside from his trembling. Uldred’s face was just starting to darken in anger when the older Templar pushed Cullen’s shoulder gently.

“ _ Now _ , lad,” the man murmured. “You can do this.”

Based off his expression, Cullen clearly disagreed. But he licked dry lips and opened his mouth, croaking out:

_ “Maker, my enemies are abundant. _

_ Many are those who rise up against me. _

_ But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, _

_ Should they set themselves against me. _

_ In the long hours of the night _

_ When hope has abandoned me, _

_ I will see the stars and-” _

Uldred snapped his fingers and the woman burst into flame. Her shrieks were far louder than Cullen’s. The abomination snapped his fingers again and the flames vanished just as quickly, leaving behind only the smell of cooked hair and skin. The poor Templar dangled in Uldred’s grasp, sobbing softly, raw red burns coating her arms.

“If I wanted a sermon, Cullen, I wouldn’t have disemboweled the Chantry Mother.” Uldred shook his captive, wringing another moan from her. “It’s like you don’t even want her to survive.”

“I do, I do!” Cullen shouted, leaning as close to the barrier as he dared. “Please, Master, I do! Let me try again!”

Uldred sighed, sounding very put-upon. “Fine, but sing me something good this time.”

Licking his lips again, Cullen cleared his throat.

_ “Too long I have traveled, soon I'll see her smiling, _

_ The girl in Red Crossing I'm longing to see. _

_ O, I know she is there, daisies in her hair, _

_ Waiting by the chantry to marry me. _

_ I've dreamed of the kiss I stole 'neath the arbor. _

_ I've dreamed of the promise 'neath the old ash tree. _

_ O, I know she is there, daisies in her hair, _

_ Waiting by the chantry to marry me.” _

He paused, tense as a bowstring. The woman shivered, still weeping softly.

“Yes, that will do,” Uldred said with a nod. His smile was horrible. “Continue. Start thinking of your next song. We’ll make a bard of you yet.”

That was all Dorian could bear to see, and he wrenched himself out of the dream and back into the waking world sharply. It was a relief to see the soft glow of candles outside, to hear whatever mad insects lived this far up the mountain croaking their little songs. The sheets were warm and soft beneath him, and he took a moment to ground himself. He was safe and entirely in control, as he should be.

Still, he knew there would be no more sleep tonight. So Dorian did what he always did when he was agitated and it was too early to start drinking: he went to the library.

The archivist on shift at this hour was a stripling of a boy, his face still spotted with acne. Dorian doubted he was a day over seventeen, if that. His name was Derron, and he hailed from some backwater in Ferelden. In the libraries of Minrathous, it was a point of pride that there was always a world-renowned expert on whatever subject a would-be scholar was trying to learn about. Day or night, rain or shine, Qunari invasion or darkspawn horde, their libraries were staffed by the best.

Here, Dorian had to contend with a bored teenager whose nightowl tendencies apparently made him the best option for guarding the Inquisition’s repository of knowledge.

Maker, the South was such a shithole.

Still, Dorian was on a mission. He strode up to the desk and greeted Derron with a nod. “Good morning. I was wondering if you might help me track down some biographical information on someone?”

Derron just grunted, “Aye.”

“Wonderful. He would have been a mage, later turned abomination by the name of Uldred-”

The boy spat on the ground, disgust curling his features. “Sick bastard.” 

Dorian wracked his brain, trying to remember what he could have done to this particular librarian to warrant that kind of reaction. But it turned out that, for once, the vitriol was not directed towards Dorian at all.

“I was barely more’n a toddler when the Circle fell, and the enchanters shielded me from most of it,” Derron continued. The look on his face was troubled. “But I still remember hearing the screams, even after all this time. What d’you want with information about Uldred?”

To know who he was, for one thing, but Dorian didn’t say that out loud. Instead, he made an educated guess. “With Skyhold being the new home of so many mages, the Inquisitor wants me to research how Circles and other enclaves have fallen in ages past. Demons are cunning beasts, but we can learn from the tricks they’ve used before.”

That was enough to satisfy the librarian, who nodded and signalled for Dorian to follow. As he led them through the stacks, Derron’s chatter revealed that he had an apparently boundless knowledge of Fereldan history. “My recommendation for where t’ start is  _ An Illustrated History of the Fifth Blight _ by Brother Gustavus. He’s a historian by training and so he paints a good picture of what was going on in Ferelden outside of Kinloch Hold, how those factors contributed to the fall of the Circle, that sorta thing. The official Chantry report,  _ Events of Kinloch Hold in 9:30 _ , technically has more firsthand accounts, but they mostly read like a military debrief because they come from the Templars who were maintainin’ the barricade. There’s some quotes from the First Enchanter, a’course, but-”

There were seven different volumes weighing Dorian down by the time they reached his nook, and he had to stop Derron from trying to add to the pile. “Thank you, young man, you’ve been most helpful! I’ll start with these.”

Derron made a displeased humming sound, but nodded. “Fine, but lemme know if you want that treatise on early Avvar superstitions and magical customs. Adds important background to the Tower’s construction, it does.”

If Dorian had to learn more about the bloody  _ Avvar  _ in order to understand whatever was going on in Cullen’s head, he really would need to be drunk. Settling himself into his chair, he cracked open the first book on the history of the Fifth Blight.

It was certainly an interesting read. A nation on the brink of collapse, gripped by civil war after the death of the rightful king. A Blight crawling unchecked across the land, with only two Grey Wardens, a dog, and a motley assortment of rejects to keep it at bay. Add in werewolves, golems, and an army of the undead, and Dorian was frankly amazed that there was anything left of Ferelden. Leliana featured heavily, and Dorian was amused to see her described as a “gentle Chantry sister.” Gentle apparently meant something different in the south. The most relevant section, though, was the one about how the Wardens had secured the assistance of the mages.

_ ‘Unwilling to resort to evil magics and unable to stomach the murder of a child, the Wardens departed in all haste from Redcliffe to seek aid at the Tower of the Circle of Magi,’ _ Dorian read.  _ ‘It was only when they reached the docks of Lake Calenhad that they realized how dire the situation was. The most feared of evils lurked within the Circle Tower, sparing neither mage nor Templar from its depravities _ .’

It was a bit overwrought for Dorian’s tastes. Still, the book was admirably thorough, explaining in detail how the Circle had fallen to Uldred and his blood mages. Dorian sighed as he read about blood sacrifices and demons roaming the halls freely. Cullen would have been, what, eighteen when this was happening? Nineteen? The boy in the dreams certainly wasn’t any older. No wonder he was so skittish and self-righteous at the mention of blood magic. He had apparently lived through the worst-case scenario.

Still, there was something incomplete about the accounts. He could not place Cullen in any of them. The groups at play when the Wardens arrived at the tower appeared to be: the Templars barricaded on the ground floor, a small group of mages barricaded further in, and the group of senior enchanters held prisoner in the room used for Harrowings at the top of the tower. Everyone else roaming the halls was either an abomination, a blood mage, or a thrall, according to the reports of the Wardens, and all of them had been put down like rabid dogs. Cullen’s little group certainly hadn’t been behind either of the barricades. None of the texts made mention of them at all.

Perhaps Cullen’s dreams really were just nightmares, conjured from his imagination as he huddled on the ground floor of the Circle Tower and listened to the slaughter above? But the dream had seemed very solid, very real, each detail of it pinned in place rather than twisting and flickering like the Fade normally would.

When Dorian finally found the Inquisition’s future commander, it was as an asterisk. 

‘ _ Survivors of the Harrowing Chamber itself were less than a dozen in number, _ ’ the Chantry’s account read,  _ ‘The most important among them* was First Enchanter Irving, who was able to give a full accounting of events to the Knight-Commander.’ _

At the bottom of the page, the footnote stated:  _ ‘A small squad of four Templars were initially imprisoned directly outside of the Harrowing Chamber, for use in blood magic. By the time the Grey Wardens reached the chamber, there was only one survivor remaining. The final total of survivors beyond the mage barricade: 1 Tranquil, 1 mage, 1 Templar. All were subsequently assigned to other Circles.’ _

Dorian knew with a terrible certainty who that sole Templar had been. He leaned back in his chair, closed the book, and murmured, “Maker’s breath.”

So Cullen had been held prisoner for a month and a half by blood mages and abominations, watching helplessly as his friends and his charges were either killed, possessed, or wholly enslaved to demons. Throughout it, he had been bled repeatedly and tortured both physically and mentally.

Dorian thought of the Vyrantium Circle, tried to imagine watching all of the apprentices and Templars and haughty enchanters dying in front of him while he was made to watch. He thought of himself at eighteen, sensitive and defiant and so eager to prove himself. So confident that he was an adult, but still achingly young in retrospect. What would it have done to that boy, to witness the destruction of a Circle?

Perhaps Cullen had a bit of an excuse for being a frigid prick, after all. And then Dorian, Solas, and Maxwell had held him down and bound him like a slave to a blood mage.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Dorian spat, letting the book drop with a satisfying thump. 

They hadn’t known, but that was a cold comfort. Maxwell would not have been swayed from his course even if he had known every detail. Would Dorian?

_ ‘You like this, don’t you? Love it, in fact. Being pinned down and made helpless by me. That’s all you Templars really need, isn’t it, a magister to come put you in your place?’ _

Dorian sighed. Knowing would have changed the details, certainly. He wasn’t a nice man, not anymore, but nor was he a sadist. Knowing would have put Cullen’s behavior in a new light, made him easier to predict, manipulate, and...and to comfort, as well. But at the end of the day, Maxwell would still have given the order, and Dorian would still have obeyed it. 

So. He could not undo what had been done. The question now was how to move forward?

**\--CULLEN--**

The Desire demons liked him. He was never sure  _ why _ , but as they passed from the Harrowing Chamber in search of mischief, they always zeroed in on him. Even before Beval, Annlise, and Farris had been killed, Cullen had been the…‘favorite’ was the word they used.

It would have been easier if they just wanted sex, the way civilians always assumed Desire demons did. Before the Circle had fallen, Cullen had never--but that didn’t matter. He knew enough now to lie there and let them take their pleasure. 

But they did not want his baser lusts. What they wanted--

Drass’ voice echoed down the hall. “Darling, I love you.  _ I love you. _ I wish we could stay like this forever.”

\--he would not give them. He would die whole, at least. Die with his mind as intact as he could manage.

But the demon on top of him tonight did not look like apprentice Amell. Purple-skinned and sharp-toothed, it wore Dorian Pavus’ face like a noble might wear a fine fur coat. Its chest was sculpted muscle instead of firm breasts; it was hard against his thigh, not wet. 

Its yellow eyes gleamed from Dorian’s face. It spoke in his voice. “Hello, love. Have you missed me?”

“It’s not real,” Cullen gasped, sucking air through his teeth. He could never move well in his dreams, his limbs slowed like he was wading through water. “You’re not real.”

“You thought you were safe, didn’t you?” it cooed, horns shining onyx in the light from the cage around them. “Far from here and tucked away. What was it, ‘Commander?’ Oh, Cullen, sweetling, you’re commander of nothing.”

“No, no, leave me, this isn’t-”

“You’re nothing but my toy,” it purred, Dorian’s accent making the words especially sinful. “My plaything, my little Templar pet.”

Cullen slammed his head back against the stone floor, desperate to wake, but the demon caught him with a tight grip in his hair before he could make contact with the floor. It smiled, and its fangs glittered. It was a relief when tears began to blur Cullen’s vision.

“Shhh, I’ll let you return to the dream soon, my love. I just wanted to remind you of what’s waiting for you out here in the waking world.” The demon chuckled, nuzzling against his throat. 

Cullen stared helplessly up at the ceiling, feeling tears track down his face. “No, no, please, no-”

“All right, that’s quite enough of that.”

Dorian’s voice, but not from the demon. The world rumbled around them, the Desire demon whipping its head to the side to look for the source of the sound. There was a blast of light and heat, a fireball sending the demon tumbling off of him. Cullen skittered away, pressing his back to the wall as the cage disappeared entirely, and then beside him was Dorian. The  _ real  _ Dorian, not a hint of purple skin or horns in sight.

The demon hissed as it righted itself, baring its fangs. The air around it flashed green. “Interloper! Begone! This one is-”

“Have you ever been cooked from the inside out?” Dorian interrupted, his tone pleasant. “I imagine you’d be feeling that long after you managed to re-form yourself.”

It was craven, it was pathetic, but Cullen let himself lean against Dorian’s leg like a child taking shelter. The mage was warm and reassuringly solid, and he stood like a bulwark between Cullen and the demon.

The demon’s yellow gaze darted between them, and its snarl shook the ground. “You cannot steal my-”

“I’m not the one putting my greasy demon hands on someone else’s property,” Dorian said. “Now run along and tell the other vultures that their meal is gone, won’t you?”

Cullen felt the Fade shiver around them, and the demon coiled itself like it might spring at them. Dorian raised a hand, his fingers poised to snap. With a final snarl, the demon disappeared entirely, taking the Harrowing antechamber with it.

They sat on bare, beige stone now, the raw Fade like a yellow mist. Cullen found he could not speak. Dorian knelt by his side, his expression concerned.

“Are you all right? Did it hurt you?”

He shook his head, trying to make himself stop trembling.

Dorian cupped his cheek gently, his fingers soft against Cullen’s skin. “Let’s go somewhere more pleasant, shall we?”

When Cullen opened his eyes again, he was not in Kinloch, or the empty Fade, or his quarters in Skyhold. He was in an open, sunny room, the far wall composed of nothing but windows showing a lush jungle outside. The floor was an intricate tile mosaic of various sea creatures, with the ceiling above matching it exactly. Cullen was sprawled across a veritable mountain of silken pillows in the center of the room, the fabrics a swirl of black and gold. The air was warm, scented with baking bread and spices.

He looked down at himself, only mildly surprised to discover that all he was wearing was a pair of thin, black silken pants. No smallclothes, from the feel of things. With a sigh, Cullen said, "Show yourself, Pavus."

Dorian materialized in front of him, lounging on a leather chair very similar to the one in Skyhold’s library that he’d claimed. He had one leg thrown over the arm of it, and his posture was as lazy as a cat in the sun. “Sorry about that, I was checking to see that your little friend had scampered off.”

Cullen grimaced. “Ah. Well.” He had to take a deep breath before he could manage, “Thank you for your...intervention.”

“Is that a typical night for you, Commander?”

“I--” There was little point in denying it now. “Yes, generally. The details change, but you have seen the...” He trailed off with a shrug, unsure how to finish. He couldn’t meet Dorian’s eyes.

“Hmm.” Dorian studied him for a moment and then said, “Well, that simply won’t do. I can’t have demons going about, wearing my face like some ghoulish mask. They lack my flair, my style. Unacceptable, you see?”

Defensive and embarrassed, Cullen wrapped his arms around his curled legs. “I can’t control what I dream.”

“Not yet, anyway,” Dorian agreed. “So you’ll stay here in my dreams instead.”

“What?”

Gesturing to the room around them, Dorian said, “Welcome to the interior of my mind. Lovely, isn’t it? While you have been batted around like a mouse between the claws of that Fear demon-”

“It was a Desire demon.” Why  _ that  _ was the sticking point that he was arguing about, Cullen couldn’t really say. 

“It took the form of a Desire demon.” Dorian pointed at him. “But your particular dreams are not the sort that Desire demons like to feed on. No orgies, for one thing, or golden thrones.”

“Unlike your dreams?”

Dorian laughed and patted the chair’s arm. “Is this what passes for a throne in Ferelden? Regardless, your nightly visitors take the form of Desire demons because it frightens you, and they feed on those memories and those fears.”

“I--that’s--” His shoulders slumped, and he looked away. “I don’t want to talk about it, Pavus.”

“And I won’t make you,” Dorian replied, “but you have pricked the blackened shell of my conscience. I can’t just leave you to your own devices.”

“Yes, well, I’ve learned the hard way that I do have to sleep.” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, feeling wretched and terribly vulnerable. People had overheard his nightmares before, but to have someone actually  _ see  _ one…

“Not to worry,” Dorian said. “As I was saying, while you have been harried these past few nights, I’ve been learning to control my small corner of the Fade. You can see the result.”

Absently, Cullen reached down to feel the silken pillows that he rested on. Soft, warm, and indistinguishable from the real world. “...it is very impressive, I’ll give you that.”

“Of course it is,” Dorian preened. “You can stay here, safely out of the claws of your nightmares, in a world of my creation.”

“That very nearly didn’t sound sinister.” With a sigh, he added, “While your offer is kind, it would probably be better to just leave it, Dorian. Unless you have a way to coordinate our sleep schedules for the rest of time, this is a temporary fix at best.”

When the raw shock of Kinloch Hold had faded and he had been trying to resume a normal life, Cullen had hoped that perhaps it was just a matter of getting a few nights of peaceful sleep. There were tinctures that could do it, potions or poppy milk that would sink his mind so deep into slumber that he wouldn’t dream at all. But they left him feeling groggy and stupid the next day, and the nightmares always returned the moment he tried to sleep normally. Worse, the small reprieves just made the horror  _ worse _ , more vivid when it all came rushing back in. By the time he left Greenfell, Cullen had resolved to just bear the nightmares as they came. 

Dorian’s offer of safe, gentle sleep was more tempting than the mage could possibly know. But Cullen had learned the hard way that unless a solution was permanent, it was foolish to get his hopes up.

Dorian grinned. “Oh Commander, such little faith you have in me! I’ve already thought of a solution for that, too.”

He snapped his fingers, and a golden shackle appeared on Cullen’s ankle.

Outraged, Cullen asked, “What is  _ that _ ?”

“A visual metaphor,” Dorian stage-whispered, the patronizing bastard.

Scowling, Cullen investigated the shackle. It was a laughably delicate thing, the shackle itself wrought into decorative little swirls that were no thicker than a fingernail. The chain was nearly gossamer, the links feeling silky between his fingers as they trailed off into nowhere at all. And yet, tugging on the metal revealed it to be as unyielding as stone, not bending or denting even slightly despite Cullen’s best efforts.

Dorian’s expression was smug and a touch possessive when Cullen looked back up at him, and Cullen ignored the low heat that it kindled in his stomach. “I’ll ask again, and I expect an actual answer: what is this?”

“It is an anchor, in essence, tethering you to this construct of mine.” Dorian gestured at the room around them. “Even if I’m not asleep to pull you into my dreams, this should do it for me, bringing you here instead leaving your mind to its own devices. This place is completely under my control. No demons to be found.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” Cullen eyed him nervously. It was painfully apparent that Dorian held all the power right now, able to literally shape the world around them as he pleased.

But Pavus just shrugged. “I don’t care, so long as you don’t go trying to smash anything. You could probably sleep? That would keep you nicely out of the way while I tinker.”

He couldn’t trust the casualness of the offer. It was a trick, a trap. No Tevinter magister would do something like this for nothing, especially not when Cullen was so obviously at his mercy. Maker, maybe this was all part of the first dream, the demon toying with him again and again. Around him, the air grew noticeably colder. The tile floor morphed into dingy grey stone, spattered with bits of--

“None of that, now.” Dorian’s voice was firm, but comforting. His fingers were on Cullen’s chin suddenly, forcing him to look only at the mage, not the creeping stone. “What has you concerned?”

“What do you want for all of this?” Cullen was ashamed of how miserable he sounded. Dorian knelt in front of him, resting on the same mass of pillows and looking entirely sincere. It couldn’t be trusted, though-

“Nothing, Cullen.” Dorian released his chin to cup his cheek, his thumb running gently across Cullen’s cheekbone. “Think of it as an apology, for botching the ritual the way that I did.”

That...that made quite a bit of sense, really, and Cullen clung to the idea like a liferaft. Still, he felt horribly vulnerable as he asked, “And you’ll...you don’t care if I just sleep? There isn’t…”

“You curling up for a nap would leave you in a better mood and give me room to work without distractions.” Dorian’s voice was light, teasing only gently. “I really, truly do not have any conditions for you taking up residence here while you dream.”

It seemed impossible, like he was being told unicorns had sprouted from the ground and were galloping through the Undercroft. Life did not work that way, and for this sudden protection and perfect solution to come from...His confused disbelief must have been showing in his expression, but Dorian’s face just softened further.

“Lounge, admire my fantastic taste in architecture, and watch me work.” His tone was as irreverent and haughty as ever, but his touch was comforting as he stroked Cullen’s cheek a final time before pulling away.

Cullen was glad for the reprieve and the chance to gather himself. He turned to watch as Dorian stepped back from his stack of cushions, asking, “Work?”

Dorian, true to form, was happy to talk. “It’s not easy, shaping the raw Fade into something sensible. Things like solidity, texture, the tendency to exist from moment to moment, none of that comes naturally here. I’ve been working to create a reasonable approximation of the real world, and you can see the results.”

Curious, Cullen reached down and tapped the tile floor. It was solid, slightly grainy. There was nothing to indicate that it existed only in their minds. 

“My current project is making realistic plantlife.” Dorian tilted his head, and a potted flower materialized in front of Cullen, the bright yellow petals drooping slightly.

“It looks real enough?” Now that the adrenaline terror was wearing off, Cullen felt himself growing tired. He stretched out on the mountain of pillows, angled so that he could see the flowerpot. 

“It looks real, but that’s as far as I’ve managed.” Dorian sat down cross-legged in front of the flower and waved his hand through it. Rather than being solid like a real plant or completely intangible like an illusion, the flower smeared, streaking like wet paint. “When I keep it solid, the texture is all wrong. But I’ve had some luck with ferns and other-”

He chattered on, clearly talking mostly to himself. Cullen settled against the pillows, watching sleepily as Dorian tried to give the leaves of the flower realistic veins. When he felt his eyes growing heavy, Cullen said, “While you try to remember the botany class you slept through, can you conjure me a blanket?”

Dorian sniffed, “I didn’t sleep through all the botany classes, my education was very expensive.”

Cullen plumped the pillow beneath his head. “Yes, yes, you were reliably awake for poisons and aphrodisiacs.”

“That,” Dorian said with narrowed eyes, “is an extremely specific guess.”

“My first year as a Templar, they held the botany classes at dawn,” Cullen chuckled. “No one wanted that shift, so I was assigned to lean against the wall and watch apprentices fall asleep trying to remember the many uses of spindleweed. But everyone always perked right up when the topic was making poisons or aphrodisiacs, for some mysterious reason.” 

Dorian looked away, clearly fight a smile. With a wave of his hand, a heavy fur appeared next to Cullen. “Go to sleep and stop distracting me.”

“138 uses for spindleweed,” Cullen muttered, tucking the fur around himself, “including medicinal tonics, stabilizing reagents-”

“Hush, you,” Dorian said, the laugh he’d been fighting finally breaking free. “This is precise work.”

Cullen drifted off to the sound of Dorian muttering plant names in Tevene.


	11. Chapter 11

Cassandra and Josephine’s arrival that afternoon was a blessing. 

Cassandra, naturally, stormed into his office like a hurricane, yanking him up from his desk and into a hug that nearly crushed his ribs. The hug was surprising, even if the force behind it was not. Cassandra was not much of a hugger, but apparently the trip to Skyhold had given the emotion time to build up.

“I’ll kill him!” she hissed, while squeezing Cullen so tightly he felt his bones creak.

Dangling on his toes, barely able to breathe, Cullen could only smile and murmur, “I missed you too, Cassandra.”

She released him after a moment, looking slightly embarrassed. But that was not enough to prevent her from taking him by the shoulders and turning him this way and that, seemingly checking him for injuries. 

“You look just the same,” Cassandra murmured, “as if you had never been corrupted.”

“Say what you will about Maxwell’s ritual, it did work as promised,” Cullen sighed.

Squeezing his shoulder, Cassandra gave him a serious look and said, “Tell me everything.”

Abruptly, Cullen was hit with a visceral memory of meeting her in Kirkwall. Her expression had been hard when she greeted him at the docks of the Gallows, and her tone had been equally hard when she gave him that same command.  _ ‘Tell me everything.’ _

As he had then, Cullen answered, “You’ll want to sit down, Seeker. It’s a very long story.”

Cassandra’s lips quirked just slightly, and she reached into her travel bag to withdraw a bottle of red wine. “The Comte DuParestais insisted I take it. Apparently an excellent vintage. You look as if you could use a drink.”

And so, sipping wine out of wooden ale mugs, the two of them barricaded themselves in Cullen’s office for the better part of two hours. Cullen told her as much as he could bear to, giving a summary of everything that had occurred since he’d been poisoned. Cassandra peppered him with questions and clarifications, but she was an attentive listener. At the end of it, she shook her head and stared out the window. “And how did you feel when you woke this morning?”

“Honestly? It was the best night’s sleep I’ve gotten in years.”

“Madness.”

His feet propped on a crate, Cullen clinked his mug against hers in tired agreement.

“We are the ones who elevated Maxwell,” Cassandra mused, her jaw clenched. “We four. And now he plays at being the Maker.”

“I’m not sure we had a…” Cullen trailed off, considering. “No, I suppose there was always a choice. You and Leliana could have left him in a cell in Haven. I could have refused to give my men orders from some child mage. And we all would have died.”

Cassandra gave no response, her eyes fixed on Maxwell’s tower. 

“We both saw firsthand what horrors the Breach unleashed. And you’ve travelled the map with him sealing rifts. How many hundreds, how many thousands of lives have been saved because we put our trust in him and followed where he led?” Cullen massaged the back of his neck, contemplating. “We made the pragmatic choice, and I think it was the right choice, even now.”

“Should we have made him Inquisitor?” Cassandra’s voice was quiet. Not soft, her voice was rarely ever soft. But quiet. “It seemed like the clearest course of action, the most obvious. He stood face to face with the Elder One, he brought us to Skyhold, it seemed...it seemed like he truly was the Maker’s reward for our faith. And now all I can see are the moments that should have given me pause.”

“I’m not sure I’m the right person to reassure you, one way or the other.” Cullen took a long drink of his wine. “Those last three years in Kirkwall, there were a dozen different times that I should have forced the moment, that I should have pushed back and demanded Meredith step down. But I knew deep down that she wouldn’t. And I didn’t know what would happen after she refused, after all the cards were laid on the table and she still said ‘no.’ I reasoned I could do more good reigning in her worst impulses, that things could be resolved peacefully after the crisis passed.” He laughed humorlessly. “And then there was nothing but crisis.” 

“Maxwell has the Anchor.” Cassandra’s voice was serious, heavy with the weight of the world. “Even if we wanted him to step down as Inquisitor, there is no one else who can close the rifts.”

“He has apologized to me, multiple times.” Cullen sighed. “He’s not yet incapable of admitting that he was wrong. He tries to make amends. And he’s still young. He may grow into the leader we need, with time and guidance.”

Something about that made Cassandra smile.

“What?”

“You talk as if you’re so old, yourself.” Cassandra teased. “You are barely out of your twenties. Practically a babe still.”

“As opposed to you, the sage elder who has yet to hit forty?” In a serious tone, he asked, “Tell me, what was it like during the first Inquisition, when you were still young?”

Shaking her head, Cassandra said, “I suppose there is life in us both yet. And hope for the future.”

“To digging out of the rubble once more,” Cullen said, holding up his mug.

“And to building something new from it.” Cassandra tapped their mugs together before draining what remained of her wine. She glanced at the sun’s position. “Damn. I have duties I must attend to, but Cullen, I will be staying as close to Skyhold as I can manage.”

“You don’t need to-”

“I  _ want  _ to.” She clapped him on the shoulder in parting. “If anyone can fix this madness, it will be Josephine.”

Cullen privately thought the same thing, but he was hesitant to let himself hope too much. Josephine was a consummate professional, but even she couldn’t force a miracle.

A few hours passed, and the sun was just starting to sink when Josephine came to him. The knock on his office door was soft, polite. “Cullen? May I have a moment of your time?”

Cullen smiled. “Come in, Josephine. Here, let me get the door.”

She greeted him with a kiss on both cheeks, her smile bright as she looked him over. “You look wonderful! With the letters we received from Leliana, I feared we would come home to find you little more than a skeleton.

Cullen couldn’t quite keep the sour note out of his voice when he said, “Maxwell’s ritual was thorough.”

“I am so sorry that all of this happened,” she said, her expression becoming mournful as she patted his cheek. “But I am so glad that you are with us, despite it all. Where there is life, there is hope.” 

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you’d spent as much time around Pavus as I have recently,” Cullen groused.

Josephine bit her lip. “I cannot promise I will make everything as it was, Cullen. But Maxwell and Madame de Fer have explained the situation to me. Come, let’s sit.”

They settled in across from each other. Josephine had a small sheaf of documents in the smooth leather binder that she often carried when she was on the go. Cullen was curious about the contents, but let Josephine lead.

“Our problem is threefold, from what I understand,” she began. “Everyone knows that you were dying from red lyrium corruption, an incurable condition. No one can know that you were cured through blood magic. And every mage who sees your mark knows, or can very easily discover, that Dorian put it there and that it signifies his, ah, ownership of you.”

Cullen ran a hand through his hair. “That is about the shape of things, yes.”

“I have an idea,” Josephine said, like the Maker-sent miracle that she was. “I want to suggest it to you first, though, before broaching it with the Inquisitor. If you find it intolerable, we can try to find another option.”

“All right.” Cullen was ridiculously relieved at being given some input into his own damned future for once. “What was your idea?”

“What is Vivienne’s title?”

“The First Enchanter of Montsimmard?”

Something about that answer made Josephine smile. “I meant outside of the Circles.”

“Oh. Er, well, she’s the Duke de Ghislain’s mistr-- _ oh no _ .”

Josephine reached out and patted him on the hand apologetically. “Oh yes.”

Cullen boggled at her. “You want--you think--your plan is for me to be named Dorian’s  _ mistress?!” _

Holding up a hand, Josephine said, “Let me explain, I know that it must sound like lunacy at first blush.”

“ _ Indeed _ ,” Cullen said through gritted teeth. 

“With your help, and with the help of our mages, we can spin a convincing explanation of the spell that saved you,” Josephine said. “But we will need an equally convincing explanation for why we are not using it to save every poor soul afflicted with red lyrium. So: we are honest that the spell creates a strong mental link, a lifetime bond. Your marks are a part of that. We can add in that the spell is an enormous risk to the mage casting it, that it requires an exorbitant amount of lyrium, so on and so forth. I think this will be enough to explain your survival, without letting it be known that you are...”

“A blood mage’s thrall?”

Josephine grimaced. “Yes, precisely.”

“But won’t that be sufficient?” Cullen’s voice held a note of desperation. “The rest of the world can gossip all they like about what the mental bond means, why would I need to become…”

He couldn’t finish, his cheeks coloring at the thought. ‘Mistress.’ As if he was some pretty plaything dangling on Dorian’s arm. He thought of himself in Dorian’s lap, the Inquisitor’s gaze on them both, and had to glance away to gather himself.

“The term for it in Tevinter is ‘consort’, since Dorian is not married,” Josephine added, as if that helped. 

All Cullen could manage was, _ “Why?” _

“As with many other areas, Lord Pavus is the problem here,” she explained. “No one who is familiar with his reputation will believe that he did this ritual and risked his life for a stranger. For someone who could give him nothing.”

“But we could claim he did it for the Inquisition!”

Josephine shook her head. “The general consensus thus far is that he is helping the Inquisition because it aligns with his political interests and because the Venatori are a threat to his power. Sensible reasons that are purely self-interest.” She sighed. “You must understand, Cullen, the persona he wields is one of a vengeful, possessive, and ruthless blood mage. It has kept him alive, but it...it also restricts him. None of our allies in Tevinter, the Free Marches, or Orlais will believe that he was willing to do something for nothing.”

“Some might believe it!” But it was weak even to his own ears.

“Some, yes.” Her expression was open and calm, a woman negotiating rather than demanding. “I am not an expert on magic, or Tevinter. But the danger of offering an obvious excuse is the same anywhere. It will encourage people to disbelieve our explanation, to dig on their own in an effort to discover what secrets we are trying to hide.”

“Whereas the idea that he and the Commander of the Inquisition have been carrying on a secret affair and are now forced to make it public is just salacious enough to be the truth,” Cullen finished grimly. 

It made sense, that was the worst part. He could see the logic behind it, see the way that the juicy nature of a secret romance and forced reveal would misdirect the gossiping jackals who were always circling the Inquisition looking for weaknesses. The small lie, the one that seemed personally embarrassing, would distract them all from the bigger secret.

It just came at the price of his dignity.

Josephine correctly interpreted his expression, and squeezed his hand tightly. “I know this is not what you wanted, Cullen, any of it. That is part of why we’ll have you named his consort; to make things more equitable.”

“How will that make anything more equitable?”

Her eyes gleamed in a way that made Cullen glad she was on his side, and she plopped the stack of papers down on his desk. “Because to have this taken seriously, he will have to legally make you his consort. In Tevinter, that entitles you to certain rights, a certain income, a standard of behavior that he must uphold in public.”

It was the last part that caught his attention. “What do you mean?”

“Nobility anywhere is based deeply on appearances,” Josephine explained. “It is no different in Tevinter. The point of publicly naming a consort is to show that you have the wealth to support another person lavishly, to pamper them and shower them with symbols of your status. By the same token, a consort is expected to represent his or her patron in public, to embody decorum, desirability, and refinement.”

“And  _ I  _ am supposed to embody ‘decorum, desirability, and refinement’?” Cullen sounded roughly as incredulous as he felt. 

Josephine, ever the diplomat, just smiled politely and said, “The standards of the arrangement will take some negotiation, obviously. But the point is that no magister who wished to be taken seriously would be cruel to his consort in public. It would imply an uncontrollable temper, a weakness to be exploited. A magister who must beat or humiliate their consort is one who cannot manage any other part of their life, either.”

_ “If you trust nothing else, trust my instincts for self-preservation, _ ” Pavus had said. 

Still, Cullen couldn’t imagine actually standing in public and comfortably claiming that he and Dorian were...were…

Josephine read his expression again and gestured to the papers. “The benefits would not simply be controlling his behaviour in public. Tevinter is a very, ahem, transactional society. Consorts and their patrons sign contracts of service.”

Cullen was enormously glad that she didn’t lead with that. “...are you suggesting that I  _ prostitute myself _ to-”

“No!” A blush darkened Josephine’s cheeks, but she soldiered on. “The contracts stipulate that a consort will be under patronage for a certain number of years. Some contracts go further, specifying certain, erm, duties, but in many cases, they are quite dry documents. And once the contract is finished, the consort and patron may sign another contract or part ways amicably.”

He sat up straighter, suddenly understanding exactly what her angle was. “Giving us the perfect excuse.”

“Precisely.” Josephine was truly in her element now, and she tapped the papers. “You might wear the marks from the ritual forever, but this contract would provide a perfect cover for you both to part ways. The bards can spin a story of star-crossed love in the middle of a war, the elders can tut that they knew the passion would fade. You, Pavus, and the Inquisition all escape this debacle with your reputations intact.”

Cullen leaned back in his chair, considering the unlikely lifeline that had just been tossed to him, the light in the dark showing a way out. “Josephine, you are sent from the Maker, truly.”

She beamed at him. “Oh, thank you! So you like the idea, you think it would be bearable?”

“So far, it’s the only idea anyone has had that  _ did  _ sound bearable.” He paused. “Wait, you mentioned income. So he would be paying me? Pavus will balk at that.”

He could practically hear Dorian’s sneer.  _ ‘Do you even use money, or is it purely the barter system here in Ferelden? Gold isn’t for eating, Cullen, so what would you even do with it?’ _

Josephine nodded. “Yes, that’s a concern of mine as well. If we could waive the income requirements, I would happily suggest that, but a consort legally must receive a stipend for the contract to be considered valid.”

“Is there a minimum? Something to prove we aren’t trying to beggar him?”

“Ah, yes. The minimum required stipend expected of a magister is .02 percent of his yearly income.”

Cullen relaxed further. “Perfect! That can’t possibly be much.”

Josephine was silent for a moment before saying, “Well. Based on our estimates of the worth of his lands, properties, various investments, interest on loans made by his family…”

“...how much would he be required to pay me, Josephine?”

She named a figure. Cullen nearly swallowed his own tongue, and had barely recovered from that when he did the mental calculations to see just how much Dorian was actually earning each year. “You’re telling me that he’s rich enough to buy one of the Marcher cities outright, and he’s stealing wine from the Inquisitor on a weekly basis?”

Josephine allowed a small grimace. “Yes, that does appear to be the case.”

“He’ll refuse this on principle alone,” Cullen concluded grimly.

“Or he will negotiate terms that are unfair to you.” Josephine leaned forward, her expression serious. “I do not want to mislead you, Cullen. At first glance, these contracts guarantee a consort’s presence as a dinner companion and little else. But the terms that I have seen added in my research can be...onerous.”

“You mean,” he cleared his throat, “private matters, or-”

“Beyond physical intimacy,” Josephine explained, blushing nearly as much as Cullen was. “Publicly, socially, legally, you would be bound to him. Your own income from the Inquisition would go to him as a matter of course, for example, and he could demand joint ownership of any titles you are granted, any lands you are given, that sort of thing. He is allowed to restrict your travel, prevent you from visiting certain cities or regions. It would last until the contract is fulfilled. And…”

“And?”

She looked away. “It would not matter, of course. He wouldn’t have any interest in doing it, and obviously we would never let him do such a-”

“Josephine, being vague is not reassuring to me right now.”

“If he wanted to return to Tevinter, he could demand that you go with him,” she explained. “If you refused, you would be in violation of Tevinter’s laws and subject to arrest. This would be irrelevant, normally, since no southern ruler will ship you off to Tevinter over a contract dispute, but if he were to hire mercenaries or something similar to drag you north...in the eyes of his homeland, he would be perfectly justified.”

A jolt of cold settled in Cullen’s stomach, a heavy awareness that his problems were not quite over yet. “But that’s  _ if _ he demands those terms.”

Josephine nodded. “Yes. My hope is that we can negotiate something amicable, something that will make everyone happy. But I would be remiss if I didn’t warn you what might happen, what your situation may become.”

Cullen sighed and reached out to pat her on the hand. “Thank you, Josephine. I’ll consider everything you’ve told me and do my best to make a decision before our meeting tomorrow.”

As he lay in bed that night, staring up at the ceiling, Cullen worried. There was little else for him to do. 

The problem was that Pavus was a liar, just as everyone who played the Great Game was. There was the version of himself he presented to the public: a ruthless, decadent, magister. There was the version of himself he presented to his enemies and those who defied him: a cruel and terrifying blood mage. And then there was the version of himself he had shown to Cullen in their most private interactions: a man with a protective streak who could be achingly gentle.

Which one was the real one? Were they  _ all  _ the real one, or none of them? Would it matter which version of Dorian was the truest one, since the contract would bind Cullen to all of them? When (not if) they fought, which side of Pavus would win out? Could Cullen risk putting his trust in the better nature of a blood mage, even if that blood mage had been kind to him when no one could see?

It would be easier if there was literally anyone who actually knew Dorian, not just the masks he wore. Someone who-

Cullen’s eyes snapped open and he stood abruptly. The answer to at least some of his questions was sitting in the cells of Skyhold.

**\---**

“Is the blindfold really necessary?” 

It was strange, hearing echoes of Dorian’s accent in another person’s voice. Cullen had come to think of it as an idiosyncrasy, something unique only to him. It was almost unsettling to listen to Gereon Alexius add the same crisp pronunciation that Dorian did to some syllables.

“Necessity is a complex thing when it comes to interrogations,” Cullen responded. He’d instructed the guards not to tell Alexius who he was being questioned by and to strap the blindfold tight. Docile or not, the Venatori was still the enemy.

It was just the two of them in a dank little room directly off of the dungeons. The stone walls and floor were bare, and the table they sat at was made of rough wood. Cullen’s chair was simple but sturdy, with a cushion to keep him comfortable during long interrogations. The chair Alexius sat in had shackles welded to the arms and legs, to better keep the prisoners in place. An oil infused with magebane was rubbed into the wood and metal daily, and the room smelled faintly of it at all hours.

“Your spymaster and her lieutenants have already wrung me dry of information,” Alexius said tiredly. “Whoever you are, just go and check her notes.”

“Not craving visitors, then?”

Though the leather blindfold obscured Alexius’ eyes, the sneer in his expression was plain to see. “I have plenty of visitors. Your charming guards keep me company.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “Are they cruel to you?”

Alexius snorted rather inelegantly for a former magister. “They’re precisely as friendly as you’d expect them to be towards a Tevinter mage who worked for Corypheus. They don’t beat me or piss in my food, if that’s what you’re asking. Are you being sent to check up on my health? When will the Inquisitor render judgement? I’d like to end this farce and be executed.”

“What makes you think Trevelyan will have your head?” 

“I’m not a child. My country has been at war with every nation on the continent at least once. I know what’s done to captured enemies.” He heaved another tired sigh. “Am I to infer this is not an update on my judgement, then?” 

“No. I’m here to ask about your former protégé, Dorian Pavus.”

Alexius shifted uneasily in his chains. “I’ve told the spymaster all I know on Dorian, too. Why not go ask him your questions personally, unless he’s managed to get himself thrown out of the Inquisition?”

Cullen nearly responded with a very tart ‘Unfortunately not’ before he remembered this was an interrogation, not a conversation. He rubbed uneasily at the length of his wrist where Dorian’s mark blazed for any mage to see. “You were a stabilizing influence on him. His apprenticeship to you was the longest he stayed in one place and out of trouble that we can find record of.”

“And?”

“What changed?”

“As I said, go ask him. He’s the one who left.”

Cullen smiled tightly. “Magister, this can go one of two ways. We have a polite conversation about Dorian now and then we both go about our evenings. Or you can refuse to answer and I will go about my evening. You, in the meantime, will remain in this cell, shackled to this chair, until I come back to see you tomorrow night, when we’ll resume the conversation. Or won’t. It’s up to you. But you aren’t leaving until you talk to me.”

Alexius made a melodramatic, weary sound. “By the Maker,  _ fine _ . I will answer your questions, pointless as they are.”

“Good. What changed, what caused Dorian’s apprenticeship with you to end?”

“The sudden, violent death of my wife and my son’s infection with the Blight sickness after they were attacked by hurlocks,” Alexius said, his tone flat and angry. “As you are perfectly aware.”

“That doesn’t seem connected to Dorian.” 

It was, of course, and the connection was obvious. But while much of what Cullen knew of the finer details of interrogations had come from Meredith or Leliana, it had ironically been Raleigh Samson who taught him the basics. One such memory surfaced, so sharp Cullen could nearly smell the salt in the sea air-

_ Samson leans against the wooden railing, gesturing with a half-eaten sweetroll that he has stolen from the kitchens. “Sure, you can punch them until their teeth crack, but that’ll just make them tell you what you want to hear so you’ll stop punching them.” _

_ “How would they know what you want to hear, exactly?” Cullen asks. Samson has proven good at drawing him into these little debates, skirmishes over tactics while they are supposed to be patrolling.  _

_ “The longer you’re there talking to them, the longer they’ve got to figure you out.” Samson says it around a mouthful of bread. “And the harder you’re hitting them, the more motivation they’ve got.” _

_ “Do you suggest having tea with them instead?” _

_ Samson snickers. “Remind me to tell you about the time I was just a baby Templar and we got all the officers drunk by spiking their evening tea. And no, my suggestion is to just let ‘em talk. People want to talk, people like to talk-” _

_ “Some more than others.” _

_ “Sodding rude, you are. Anyway, the things people say, the way they justify themselves, the way they describe other people, all that can tell you more than anything you’ll drag out by force. Although that’s assuming you’ve got more in that pretty head than strong opinions on dogs.” _

Cullen was glad he’d chosen to blindfold Alexius. It meant there were no witnesses to the pained grimace on his face, and that it couldn’t distract the former magister from answering.

“Nothing mattered after Felix fell sick,” Alexius said. His shoulders slumped. “Nothing matters at all, now that I know he can’t be saved. But back then, when I still thought I could cure him if I just sacrificed enough, that was what all my energy turned towards. Dorian said that I was becoming obsessed, that it was unhealthy, that I was letting it destroy me. He was right, but that didn’t matter. I can’t remember now if I threw him out or if he stomped out dramatically, but the end result was the same. He was gone, and I was alone with Felix and my work.”

“Did he use blood magic, as your apprentice?”

Alexius laughed tiredly. “I forget sometimes how skittish you all are about blood magic in the south. The mages in Redcliffe were much the same.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Dorian has written several technical treatises on the mechanisms behind some aspects of blood magic, generally as it pertained to necromancy and spirit binding.” For a moment, Alexius sounded like any Circle enchanter, irritated that his student’s work was being questioned by some layman. “While I’m sure that would be enough to get him beheaded in any of your laughable institutions, his papers were purely theoretical. They were brilliant, however, and caught my attention, enough so that I remembered his name when we met later. So no, he was never a blood mage when he studied with me.”

“Why do you think that changed?”

“Again, why don’t you ask him yourself? My work for the Elder One was mainly time magic, not mind reading.”

“Well, it’s been a nice talk,” Cullen said, making sure to put plenty of weight on the table so it would creak loudly as he began to get up. “I’ll come back and resume it tomorrow, when you’ll be feeling a bit more cooperative.”

Agitated, Alexius rattled his manacles. “I don’t know what you want me to say! I haven’t spoken to him at any length since he quit as my apprentice! The conversation when he turned down my offer to join the Venatori lasted less than 20 minutes!” 

“Which is why I asked what you  _ think _ , not what you know,” Cullen said, settling back down into the chair. 

Scowling, Alexius bowed his head in thought. After a moment, he said, “Dorian would not be the first idealistic young magister to be thrust headlong into Tevinter politics and realize what a pit of vipers it truly is. When I was appointed magister, it was with my family’s full support and protection. Dorian was alone. His father was dead, he and his mother haven’t spoken since his father died, and he and I were completely estranged by that point. It may have been a matter of survival.”

“How do you know how often he checks in on his mother, if you two were so estranged?”

“The Venatori were monitoring him.” Alexius frowned. “I found it...distasteful, but I couldn’t argue with their logic. Dorian is charismatic, gifted, and a known blood mage - an appealing target for Venatori recruitment. Imagine my surprise to find him standing side by side with your Inquisitor instead.”

“Wonders abound,” Cullen responded dryly. He rubbed at his wrist again, considering. “What was he like? What were your impressions of him, his character?”

“That he was exceptionally rude when he threw me out of his office.”

The corner of Cullen’s lips quirked up. “Alexius, you apparently invented a way to magically travel through time. So unless you’ve got some desire to sit in your own piss for the rest of the night, do me a courtesy and stop pretending to be an idiot.”

Alexius sighed, biting his lower lip for a moment. “Before our estrangement...I would have said Dorian represented the best of Tevinter. He’s brilliant and talented, and that hasn’t changed. But he was always kind, always principled.”

“How did he treat his slaves?” And Cullen was so, so glad that Alexius could not see his face when he asked that question.

“He didn’t keep any.”

“Lying to me about something that’s easy to disprove is an interesting choice.”

“I’m not lying, you imbe--damn it all, I forget that none of you know anything about Tevinter.” Alexius let his head thunk back against the wooden chair for a moment. “It’s maddening. Like being held prisoner by a troupe of monkeys.”

“We’re all dogs in Ferelden, or hadn’t you heard?” 

That amused Alexius enough to make him huff out a small breath. “Just so. What I meant was that there are many different kinds of slaves in Tevinter. The ones who maintain an estate, the gardeners and the cooks and cleaners, those are most often familial property. They can be freed in their master’s will, of course, and many of the long-serving ones often are, but most pass from generation to generation. Assuming the state hasn’t seized all of my property like the vultures they are, ownership of my household has passed to Felix.”

Cullen grimaced at hearing Alexius’ casual explanation of  _ people _ being passed down like an heirloom sword.

“So yes, Dorian has slaves who keep the estate running, but those barely count. Anyone of any status will have household slaves,” Alexius continued. “But as for personal slaves, valets or body slaves or the like that were solely his possession, Dorian never had any.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“He’s hardly an abolitionist, if that’s what you’re after. Though he was always a bit of a bleeding heart.” Alexius paused, and in a quieter tone added, “That was one of the qualities I liked about him. He could be trusted to worry about the consequences of his research, unlike too many of our countrymen.”

The irony of it was too much for Cullen not to say something. “This would be the same research that you later used to try and enslave the mages in Redcliffe?”

Rather than bristling, Alexius just sighed again. “I suppose Dorian and I both went down very unpredictable paths after we parted ways. Believe whatever you like, but we had no intentions back then of anything besides gaining a better understanding of the world around us.”

“You said he was kind?” Cullen redirected.

Alexius shrugged. “Always. Oh, he was a sharp-tongued little wretch on even his best days, with a tendency towards melodrama and hedonism when he was moody. But underneath the temper, he was never cruel to anyone. You asked about the slaves; he never beat them to make himself feel better, never punished them for not reading his mind or spoke to them like they were animals and not thinking beings. Felix adored him, Livia adored him, he would shower them with gifts just because he thought they’d like it.” There was a small, sad smile on Alexius face. “I suppose he did the same for me. Half the fossils and geodes in my office were presents from him, given for no other reason than he knew I had an empty space on a shelf.”

Cullen leaned forward. “So what changed?”

“I told you, I don’t know why he turned to blood magic-”

“No, not the blood magic. His reputation precedes him even in the south. He has bankrupted whole families, gamed the laws to sell political rivals into slavery as punishment, and he once tied a would-be assassin to a stake and burnt her alive in the middle of a garden party.” The exact height of the flames varied from telling to telling, but it was by far one of the better known stories about Magister Pavus. “What changed? Was that always in him?

Alexius was silent for a moment, then said, “We are all capable of terrible things that we justify to ourselves. All of us. Even you.”

Cullen froze, wondering if Alexius had somehow guessed his identity. But no, it was clearly meant as a general statement, thank the Maker. With effort, Cullen kept his voice steady when he answered, “I’m perfectly aware of what I’m capable of, magister. We’re talking about Dorian.”

“...losing his father has not been good for him, I think,” Alexius murmured.

“Do you think Dorian killed him? All the gossips seem to.”

Alexius shook his head as much as he was able. “The gossips are fools. Dorian  _ loved  _ his father, was utterly desperate to make him proud. Dorian and his mother were close as well, but you know how it is with...with fathers and sons.” Alexius’ voice broke just a little on the last few words.

“And so the rumors of their arguments were greatly exaggerated?” Cullen asked skeptically.

With a laugh, Alexius said, “Oh, no, Dorian often went from utterly calm to frothing with rage just by talking about the most recent fight with his parents. They quarrelled constantly, and the angry silences between fights were hardly better. Halward gained more than a few grey hairs from arguments with his son.”

“What did they fight over?” Cullen found himself genuinely curious. After he left for his Templar training, his parents had been a distant but constant warmth, sending encouragement and news through weekly letters. He wondered, sometimes, what they would think of him if they had survived the Blight.

“When he was younger, it was about the usual foibles of youth; Dorian had a quick temper and liked to celebrate to excess. By the time I knew him, the arguments were about his refusal to marry, to carry on the Pavus bloodline.”

“Why did he refuse?”

Alexius shrugged. “Dorian prefers the company of men. I see nothing wrong with it, but in Tevinter, it’s considered rather deviant to carry on such an affair openly, at least between two citizens. That sort of affection is fine when aimed at favored slaves, but for Dorian to shun his duties to his family in favor of tumbling a series of handsome Laetans...his parents thought he was being selfish, irresponsible, refusing to grow up.”

“Was he?”

“I thought he was, when he first described the cause of the quarrels.” Alexius tapped his fingers when he was thinking, Cullen noticed. It was a rhythmless staccato that only stopped when he had settled on his next thought. “But the more he spoke, the more I saw that he was a romantic at heart. He wanted a love like the bards sing about, not a marriage of convenience and a lover on the side. Idealistic, yes, but it was something that meant very much to him.”

It was hard to reconcile the man who’d promised to fuck him on the Inquisitor’s throne whether he wanted it or not with the person Alexius described. But Cullen didn’t think the magister was lying. 

“I think that answers my questions. Thank you for your cooperation,” Cullen said, rising from the table.

“Did you wake me up at midnight and have me tied to a chair to discuss Dorian Pavus’ love life?” Alexius asked, sounding faintly outraged.

“We also discussed blood magic,” Cullen responded dryly, heading for the door. “I’ll have you brought back to your cell, magister.”

He paused halfway through opening the door, his heart tugging at him. With a sigh, Cullen added, “Your son Felix has been writing to you. I will speak with the Inquisitor about allowing you to have his letters. Perhaps respond to them, depending on your behavior.”

There was a sharp inhale from behind him. Alexius’ voice was watery when he said, “I...I would appreciate that.”

Cullen did not sleep that night, his mind too busy to allow for any rest. When morning came and he arrived for the meeting with the Inquisitor and Josephine, he felt steadier than he had since the ritual.

“I’ll do it,” Cullen told them grimly. “I’ll become his consort.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how rich is Dorian? You'd think answering this question would be a simple matter of finding out how rich a Roman senator was and translating that into 'today money'. You would be wrong! Converting sesterces to dollars is apparently trick business, according to people who know much more about it than me. 
> 
> We do have some nice firm numbers for the incomes of Roman senators, though. To become a senator, a man had to be worth at least 1 million sesterces. Most senators were worth far more than that, with an average worth of 5 million sesterces and average annual incomes of more than 300,000 sesterces. Since Halward was working closely with the Archon, I assume House Pavus is probably richer than average.
> 
> Cullen the Consort will be earning more money than he knows what to with, is what I'm saying.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening for a certain scene is "Bang" by the Armchair Cynics: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9fjUJoL6u9Y
> 
> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Truth be told, Dorian hadn’t spared much thought to whatever cover story the Inquisition would come up with. It wouldn’t have any effect on him, after all, and there was no erasing Dorian’s lovely mark of ownership from the commander. The clever Lady Montilyet would come up with something suitably deceptive, Cullen would sulk and brood, and Dorian would go about his business of saving the known world.

So when he received summons to meet with Maxwell, Josephine, and Cullen in the ambassador’s office, he was only mildly curious.

“Do you not sleep, Commander?” he said, in lieu of a greeting. “Is it just a habit of yours?”

That threw Cullen for a loop, and it took a moment of stuttering before he managed, “I was  _ busy _ , Pavus.”

“Cullen, we talked about you getting more rest!” Maxwell said reproachfully. “It’s not healthy to be-”

“Josephine, give him the papers, please,” Cullen interrupted, a note of pleading in his tone.

“Of course.” Josephine slid a small stack of papers across her desk towards Dorian. “Please let me know if anything seems out of order, Lord Pavus. I am not an expert on how contracts such as this are styled in your homeland.”

The mention of Tevinter made Dorian marginally more curious, and he glanced at the top page.

Paused.

Picked it up, his brow furrowing as he read more carefully.

He wasn’t able to fully un-grit his teeth when he asked, “Is this some sort of joke?”

Cullen had the expression of a man waiting to be shot. Maxwell was making some kind of pained attempt at an encouraging smile. Josephine, true to form, wore an entirely calm mask of professional friendliness.

“Not at all,” she said. “The cover story for the events of the last few days will be that you were willing to risk your life to cure Cullen due to your affections for one another, affections that unexpectedly resulted in his marks. As your relationship is now unavoidably public, you will very thoughtfully prove your fondness and the legitimacy of our story by declaring him your consort.”

_ “What?!” _ Dorian hissed.

“When the war against Corypheus is concluded and you return to Tevinter, the contract can expire and you can go your separate ways amicably, with our story intact,” Josephine continued, as if what she was proposing wasn’t absolutely mad. 

Dorian spent a moment looking frantically between the three of them, waiting for one to crack and admit this was all a prank. When none of them spoke, the terrible possibility that they were serious began to crystallize.

“I--this--you all understand what a consort is, correct?” he demanded. “They are not platonic companions who are hired to--to go on picnics and make pleasant conversation! You want to declare to the entire world that Rutherford and I are..”

He trailed off, making a vague hand gesture at Cullen in hopes that everyone would suddenly realize how silly this all was.

“Cullen has a permanent, magical mark that’s visible to every mage who sees it and practically says ‘Property of Dorian’,” Maxwell said, crossing his arms.  _ That’s his stubborn pose _ , Dorian realized with horror. 

“But you can claim it’s a side effect of the…” Dorian trailed off again, realizing the terrible trap he had managed to walk into.

“The ritual that we can’t name, describe, or use on anyone else,” Cullen said. He was wearing just a hint of a smirk at Dorian’s visible panic. “We can say it’s a dangerous bit of complex magic, one that binds the subject and the mage together permanently. The problem, Pavus, is that no one will believe you did it out of the goodness of your heart.”

“Yes, they-”

_ Fuck _ . No, they wouldn’t. No one would. That was the entire point of his very carefully constructed persona. Not a soul in Tevinter or out of it would believe that he'd bound himself to some barbarian, dog lord  _ soporati _ without getting something spectacular in return.

“No,” Dorian finally said. “Absolutely not. I--it’s--we’ll just say that he’s a shameless exhibitionist who is grabbing his ankles for me. Since that’s bound to happen anyway-”

“Excuse me?!”

“-it will be perfect.” Dorian spread his arms. “No need for any of this consort business.”

Maxwell heaved a sigh and then stepped forward, his arms still crossed. Dorian’s stomach sank as he realized that he was wearing his Inquisitor face, the face that brooked no arguments. 

“This Inquisition cannot be crippled by worries that we are influenced by Tevinter, that we’re under the sway of blood mages,” Maxwell said, his voice terribly serious. “Our army cannot function if half the world believes you’re controlling Cullen with blood magic, and that’s exactly what they’ll think unless you work with us to make it believable.”

“But this is-”

“You’re my friend, Dorian, but you are not more important than the Inquisition.” Maxwell’s expression was stony, the same one he wore while sitting in judgement. “ _ You will do this. _ Whatever you have to claim to make it believable, claim it.”

All the way back in Qarinus, Halward Pavus’ ashes were no doubt laughing from the safety of his tasteful urn.

Dorian hated the strain in his voice when he forced out, “You don’t understand what you’re asking of me.”

“Then explain it.”

The worst part, the absolute  _ worst  _ part, was that Maxwell probably would understand if Dorian just explained it. For all that the Inquisitor was stubborn and bullheaded, he was also tremendously kind when he wanted to be. All Dorian had to do was open his mouth and admit that he had spent his entire life fighting to keep from being shoved into a loveless sham of a relationship, that he had killed his own father to keep from being turned into something he wasn’t. Tevinter’s high society viewed his dalliances with men as a deviant eccentricity that he engaged in to shock people; taking a man as his consort would announce very abruptly that he was quite serious about it. To have both piled on top of each other, all at once...

But admitting  _ that  _ would mean showing his vulnerable underbelly not just to Maxwell, but probably Cullen and Josephine as well. For just a moment, they would be picturing him tied to that table, weeping and begging for his father to just love him the way that he was. 

No.  _ Absolutely not _ . He kept his weaknesses safely locked away inside of him, and that had kept him alive in the vicious snake pit that was Tevinter’s aristocracy. He was not dropping his armor now just because it was more convenient for someone else.

The obvious solution was to sabotage this all, and Dorian threw himself into that plan with a gusto.

“You want me to elevate some  _ soporati _ as my consort and waste a disgusting amount of money on someone who barely knows the difference between silk and sackcloth?” Dorian sneered, aiming for incredulous disgust. “I never took you for the grasping whore,  _ Commander _ .” 

Cullen was clearly offended, his brow furrowed in anger. But as always, he gave as good as he got. “And I never took you for a miser who was terrified of gossip,  _ Magister _ , but here we are.”

It was stupid and petty and childish, the equivalent of ‘Do it then, I dare you.’ Dorian was infuriated to find that it worked, that his first instinct was to prove that gossip meant nothing to him anymore and he would flaunt his lover in front of the Archon himself if needed. 

But Cullen wasn’t his lover, wasn’t anything more than someone too valuable for the Inquisition to lose. Cullen flinched every time Dorian so much as gestured sharply and that-

_ Ah. Perfect. _

“You three are quite pleased with yourselves, aren’t you?” Dorian circled the table, trailing his fingers along the grain of the wood. He came to a stop in front of Cullen, who moved not-so-subtly to block him from Josephine. “So sure you’ve thought of every little detail.”

“We are trying to create a fair deal, Magister.” Josephine was unruffled by his prowling. “Since that is something you rarely encounter, I understand that it may seem strange at first.”

“I respect the effort you’ve put in, Ambassador, and the work it must have taken to convince this lump to agree to your plan.” Dorian jerked his chin at Cullen but otherwise talked over him, not looking away from Josephine and Maxwell. “However, there is one wrinkle that you haven’t considered.”

“Oh?”

Moving quickly, Dorian grabbed the front of Cullen’s coat and dragged him into a kiss.

Cullen’s reaction was immediate, shoving Dorian backwards and staggering away, wiping at his mouth with a gloved hand. “How dare you-”

Under his breath, Maxwell muttered, “Maker, not again!”

Dorian turned his attention back to the other two, smug. “Your commander is a terrible actor. You really think he’ll be a convincing consort? That every single noble and their half-blind footman won’t be able to see that this is all a farce?”

Ever the professional, Josephine had no cracks in her facade. “Few people react well to having a kiss suddenly forced on them. This proves nothing.”

“Ha! So you think Rutherford can keep the act up for weeks? Months? Years? Every time we’re in public until this war is won? Fawning and swooning over me no matter what I say or do?”

There it was, a slight downturn of her lips. She hadn’t thought of that, hadn’t factored in that Cullen couldn’t possibly-

“I can.”

Eyes narrowed, Dorian turned his attention to Cullen. The commander had that resolute look on his face, like Dorian was a castle he was planning to besiege. “Excuse me?”

“If you would stop trying to pick a fight every time you spoke and agree to be civil, then I will…” Cullen swallowed, “I will be able to pretend that we are together.” 

“No, you won’t!” Dorian snapped.

“No, Cullen has a good point,” Maxwell interjected. “If you’d stop baiting him every time you two talk, you’ll be able to keep up the facade. It’s not like you’re attending a party every night.”

“No, no, you don’t understand the-” Dorian took a breath, paused. He angled his next attack carefully. “Inquisitor, you don’t understand Tevinter, not the way I do. They will pounce on weakness, any weakness. An obvious sham of a relationship between Rutherford and I will only encourage them to dig deeper. The Commander is not the only person who could be brought down because of this ritual. You worry about the Inquisition’s reputation, but I am worried for  _ my life _ .”

He left the subtext of ‘this ritual that I only did because you ordered me’ unspoken, because he was quite capable of subtlety, thank you very much. 

Sure enough, Maxwell’s brow furrowed a little, and he scratched thoughtlessly at the Anchor. “Well, I mean, it’s just that-”

“What aspect of his role do you think Cullen cannot fulfill?” Josephine interrupted, damn her. 

That was enough to distract Maxwell from all the guilty feelings Dorian had hoped to use as a shield, and instead all three of them looked at him expectantly. 

“Any of it, all of it!”

“How unhelpful and vague,” Cullen said, raising an eyebrow.

“You see!” Dorian gestured to Cullen. “The idea that he could manage to be respectful and polite and doting for even a few courses of dinner, let alone  _ years _ , it’s laughable!”

He knew he was in trouble when Josephine smiled, just slightly. 

“Dinner would be an excellent idea, actually,” she said. “A test run, if you will. You can instruct Cullen on how he should behave during formal events, and that will surely be enough to allay your fears.”

She made it all sound so  _ reasonable _ . Maferath’s balls, this woman was a menace. 

Maxwell, of course, seized on that immediately. “That would be perfect! I know you’re worried about making this believable, Dorian, but so are we. That’s why your input will be the most important part. Cullen is willing to commit to this if you are. If doing some test runs would make this easier, I think we should at least try.”

Cullen just grunted, still scowling like a gargoyle. 

Dorian glanced between all three of them, calculating. Josephine was a dead-end. Maxwell was very committed, and in truth, Dorian felt badly about the amount of manipulating he’d need to do to change that. But Cullen…

Cullen was clearly the weak link here. 

“Fine,” he said crisply. “If some kind of tangible example will convince you all that this is pure folly, fine. But you and Josephine cannot be there to mediate, Maxwell. If the Commander can’t keep a civil tongue in his head without Josephine’s coaching, then knowing that now will save us all so much time.”

Cullen rolled his eyes, but said, “Maker’s breath, fine. If that will stop these hysterics.”

“Consorts don’t roll their eyes in public like ill-bred teenagers,” Dorian sniffed. “Josephine, please send me the details of whatever you set up. I prefer a red wine. Cullen, try to wear something without holes in it. If you show up with that rug on your shoulders, I’ll set it on fire.”

Then he swanned out of the room, doing his best to look regal and dismissive. He fixed that expression on his face until he reached his quarters. Then he barred the door, hyperventilated for a good minute and a half, and downed three glasses of brandy in short order.

_ Fuck _ .

By the time he was actually summoned to dinner at seven bells, he was considerably calmer. This would be a simple matter, after all. It was just a case of getting Cullen to call off the entire idea, and that would be easy. No one was better at irritating Cullen than him.

Skyhold was scattered with empty little rooms that the Inquisition had been repurposing as they made the castle their own. The “informal formal dining room” was one of them. While only large enough for a dining table and eight chairs to fit comfortably, there was a large, colored glass window along one wall that showed a scene of the sun rising over the Frostbacks. It was a suitably elegant little space to dine with visiting dignitaries. Dorian was bemused that Josephine and Maxwell were using it for this occasion, though.

He was further bemused when he walked in and discovered that not only was the fireplace roaring, but the silver candelabra in the middle of the table had been polished and lit as well. Their plates were set directly next to each other, rather than across the table.

_ Fasta vass, _ were they trying to set a romantic mood? Appalling. 

The only comfort was that Cullen was staring at the place settings with a mildly nauseous expression. He clearly hadn’t been involved in any part of this. He had, however, left the furry coat back in his quarters. Instead, the commander wore a jacket of soft, reddish leather and a pair of black trousers. The same boots as ever, of course, but Dorian realized abruptly that this was the first time he had ever seen Cullen out of his armor when he wasn’t on the verge of death.

He’d even left the sword behind.

Cullen glanced up at him, brow furrowed, and murmured, “What?”

Dorian realized he’d been staring silently. Shaking his head slightly, he put on his best sneer and said, “It’s customary for consorts to stand when their patron enters the room.”

Rolling his eyes, Cullen rose to his feet. In a tone as dry as the Hissing Wastes, he responded, “I’m so thankful to have a patron who understands that these little mistakes happen.”

“You don’t  _ have  _ a patron, currently,” Dorian sniffed. Still, Cullen playing along at all was somewhat unexpected. He walked to the table and stood behind his chair, not yet sitting. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you were whining about me standing-”

_ “Kaffas, _ I’m not in the mood for your terrible attempts at humor! Why are you going along with Maxwell and Josephine’s ridiculous idea?”

Cullen sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as if it ached. “Because I’d like to get out of all of this with a little bit of dignity.”

“Oh?” Dorian raised an eyebrow. “So your idea of dignity is telling the entire world you’re whoring yourself to a Tevinter magister?”

Jaw clenched, Cullen asked, “Are consorts just whores, then? If I asked anyone else from Tevinter, would they say that?”

Dorian was about to just lie and say that of course consorts were just whores, but it occurred to him belatedly that the  _ soporati _ who followed the Iron Bull around would probably be able to gainsay him. And damn it, so would the Iron Bull. The Ben-Hassrath had a nasty tendency to train up the pretty  _ viddathari  _ as spies and send them back to the mainland to cozy up to useful targets. With a grimace, he said, “Fine, so you’d prefer to be a kept man, then?”

“I would  _ prefer _ not to have any of this happening at all!” Cullen snapped, glaring at him. “But I have a tattoo that announces to the entire world that you own me, so I’ll gladly take ‘kept man’ over ‘blood thrall’ any day.”

Said tattoo glimmered in the firelight, the scales reflecting the flames like obsidian. Maker, but it was a thing of beauty. Dorian had to wrench his eyes away to keep from being distracted by it.

Tiredly, Cullen added, “Besides, everyone who knows me will be more willing to believe that…”

“That?” Dorian prompted, when Cullen didn’t seem inclined to finish.

“When my siblings and my subordinates and every Templar I served with hear about this, I would prefer they thought I made an impulsive decision out of love.”

“Love?” Dorian was very proud that he kept his voice steady and light.

Waving a hand dismissively, Cullen explained, “Love, passion, infatuation, call it what you like. Varric would have more synonyms for you. It makes fools of men every day. I’d prefer that people think I was one of those fools, and I think they would be more willing to believe  _ that _ than to believe I’d trust some random magister with my life and mind.” 

“You have siblings?” The question was unplanned, and Dorian was surprised that it had slipped out.

Cullen looked as surprised as Dorian felt. “Er, yes. One older, two younger.”

“And should I expect the entire family to descend on me for despoiling you?” There, that was a reasonably haughty recovery.

With a humorless laugh, Cullen said, “Doubtful. I haven’t seen them since I was thirteen, and they thought I was dead for several years.” 

Frankly, Dorian didn’t know what to do when faced with someone else’s family dysfunction, so he turned the topic back to safer grounds: himself.

“And what of me? The idea that I’d fall prey to all the tender emotions the bards sing about is laugha-”

“You don’t think your fellow magisters would believe that you dazzled the former Knight-Commander of Kirkwall and current Commander of the Inquisition just to show that the southern Templars weren’t immune to you?” Cullen tilted his head. “That you made him your consort just to show you could?” 

Hearing Cullen say that while Dorian’s marks shimmered on his skin, while the firelight turned his hair into molten gold-

Dorian looked away abruptly, covering it by dropping into his chair. He swallowed once and then said, “Andraste’s pyre, there’s no explaining it to you, so let’s just get on with this farce. It’s customary for consorts to pour the drinks for their patron. Keeps the rate of poisonings down.”

There, that was servile enough to make Cullen grimace. He reached over Dorian to pick up the carafe of wine. Their meal must have arrived shortly before Dorian had, venison and some kind of root vegetable. With luck, he’d be eating alone soon. Cullen poured with the bored inaccuracy of someone who’d never mixed a drink in his life, sloshing the wine nearly over the lip of Dorian’s cup.

“Pour with a little delicacy, you aren’t a tavern wench.” Dorian smirked when that caused Cullen to grit his teeth. “And stop scowling. Can you even manage a pleasant expression, when your head isn’t full of bubbles?”

Cullen took a deep breath and set the carafe of wine down rather than slamming it. Once he was seated again, he said, “Is it customary for consorts to chew your food for you, too?”

“Maybe I’ll have you eat it out of my hand for every meal, Rutherford, how would you bloody like that?” Laying it on a little thick, maybe, but none of this was going-

“So do I get to tell the Inquisitor that you refused to be polite?” Cullen crossed his arms. “That you couldn’t even manage to stop baiting me for one dinner?”

_ That  _ was new, and Dorian did not like it at all. “Who’s hiding behind the Inquisitor’s skirts now?”

“Is that you forfeiting, then?”

Scowling, Dorian reached for his wine glass and downed half of it in one gulp.

Apparently satisfied, Cullen began cutting his meat and ignoring Dorian entirely. That wouldn’t do.  _ Cullen  _ was the weak link here, and Cullen needed to be the one who walked away from this. With another sip of wine to fortify himself, Dorian reached out and wrapped a hand around Cullen’s wrist.

The response was immediate and gratifying. Cullen gasped softly, his lips parting as a shudder ran through his entire body. Beneath Dorian’s fingers, the scales of the snake glimmered.

His voice breathy, Cullen gasped, “What are you doing?”

“Making my original point,” Dorian said, stroking a thumb along the veins in Cullen’s wrist. “You can force me to be polite and curb my tongue. But that means you will have to fake affection, Rutherford. You’ll have to act as a consort should.”

“And how’s that?” Cullen asked. This close, Dorian could see that his pupils had gone wide.

“You’ll be obedient,” Dorian said, leaning closer. He pulled Cullen’s hand closer, quietly delighted at the commander’s futile efforts to tug his arm away. “You’ll look at me like I’m the only person in the room. And you’ll let me touch you all I want.”

Cullen swallowed, the movement visible in his throat. “It seems like you already are touching me all you want.”

“Ah, Cullen.” Dorian brought Cullen’s hand up, breathing softly against the skin of his palm before pressing a kiss into the center. “I’ve just barely scratched the surface of all the ways I want to touch you.”

His other hand crept onto Cullen’s knee, sliding up his muscled thigh. It should have been the  _ coup de grace _ , the thing that made the commander leap to his feet and stomp away in disgust, but-

Cullen was half-hard when Dorian’s fingers brushed against his lap, the fabric beginning to tent.

Dorian inhaled sharply in surprise, his eyes flying to Cullen’s.

His cheeks were so red that they were probably warm to the touch, but Cullen’s expression held a curious mix of defiance and terror. His voice was steady when he said, “For someone who never shuts up about how irresistible you are, you seem very surprised when your routine actually works.”

_ Oh no _ . This was bad. This was very, very bad. He needed to leave right now, for both their sakes, before the situation spun completely out of control and all the blood in his head rushed south. He opened his mouth to say something cutting, something that would absolutely wreck the mood and send Cullen scurrying away with his tail between his legs.

What he said instead was, “I’d never be able to keep my hands off you. You can’t possibly know what it would do to me, seeing you with my crest on your pretty face and hearing you tell everyone that you’re  _ mine _ .” 

Cullen licked his lips, and the fabric beneath Dorian’s hands twitched. “It sounds like you don’t have any objections to me being your consort, actually. It sounds like something you want.”

How dare Cullen choose right now to gain some fucking insight? Dorian tightened his grip on Cullen’s wrist, words spilling out through gritted teeth. “Let me be clear with you: I cannot fake this. If I get to tell everyone that I’m bending you over and ploughing you until you cry for more, I’m going to  _ do that _ . So for your own good-”

“Do it.”

He hadn’t gotten hard so fast since he was a teenager.  _ Farewell, sanity _ . “...what?”

Cullen bared his teeth like they were in the middle of a battle, and his pulse was hammering under Dorian’s fingers. “Do. It.”

“I won’t stop,” Dorian threatened. Promised? His hand splayed fully across Cullen’s lap. “Even if you beg me to stop, I won’t.”

He could feel it when Cullen’s cock twitched, straining up for more. With a grin that was half-terrified and half-ravenous, Cullen responded, “I don’t beg.”

It was like the blood in his veins had gone molten. It was like stepping off a ledge and letting gravity yank him down.

“Cullen.” Dorian pronounced each syllable very, very clearly. “Beg me to fuck you.”

Cullen moved with a violence that was alarming, except his lunge ended with their mouths slamming together. It was artless and nearly painful, but this kiss sent fire roaring down Dorian’s spine. 

"Fuck me, fuck me, Maker, I need-" Cullen panted the words between his teeth, clawing at the straps of Dorian’s robes with an animalistic frenzy.

Dorian hauled them both to their feet, shoving Cullen’s jacket off his shoulders and only narrowly missing taking out the candelabra when he threw it. He shoved a thigh between Cullen’s legs, both of them groaning as Cullen began rutting against it.

“You are maddening, absolutely maddening,” Dorian growled, pressing bites against the long, pale expanse of Cullen’s throat. “When you’re mine, Maker, I’ll have you on every surface in Skyhold, so everyone knows it, so no one can ever deny it-”

“Start with this one,” Cullen broke away briefly, shoving an armful of plates and glassware onto the floor. He kicked off his boots and trousers with amazing speed, especially considering Dorian was practically mauling him with kisses. Bare-assed and flushed from head to toe, Cullen sat on top the table and hooked a leg around Dorian’s waist to pull him in. 

“You’re fucking beautiful,” Dorian moaned against his lips, his hand falling into Cullen’s lap like a chain was pulling it there. The noises Cullen made when Dorian’s fingers wrapped around his shaft nearly undid him.

The mark wound around Cullen’s torso like a vine, rippling over his stomach and curling about his hips. The scales brushed coquettishly against the dark blond curls at the base of his prick, and with Cullen completely naked, Dorian realized that the snake stretched across one of the commander’s surprisingly plump cheeks before winding down the inside of his thigh.

“You’re covered in me,” Dorian panted, stroking his free hand down the mark on Cullen’s chest with possessive wonder.

“Take off your clothes, please, do it now.” Cullen’s voice was raw and deep, cracking with desire. His pupils were the size of saucers. Dorian wanted to keep him like this always, wild and frantic and helpless with need.

An expert in getting complicated clothing off with one hand, Dorian barely needed to pause his strokes. Haphazardly, he extinguished the fires on the candles before knocking even more plates to the floor when he pushed Cullen back against the length of the table. It would probably have been easier to bend him over it, but Dorian found himself desperate to see Cullen’s face, to watch his marks ripple on Cullen’s skin as he flushed with need.

“In me,” Cullen ordered, bucking his hips against the jut of Dorian’s cock. “Get in me, stop fucking teasing and just-”

His words ended on a sob, a groan, as Dorian summoned a grease spell and slid two slick fingers into him at once. It might have been better to go slower, but Dorian found that he was nearly shaking with need, and Cullen cock  _ pulsed _ as he was filled.

The noise he made when Dorian crooked his fingers would stay with him for the rest of his life.

He couldn’t wait after that, couldn’t bear to live another moment if he wasn’t fucking Cullen. Dorian made sure his cock was shining with slick, then grabbed Cullen’s hips and pulled him down to the edge of the table.

“When you’re mine,” Dorian panted, his voice thin and wavering from the sheer heat of Cullen’s body as it slowly closed over him, “I’ll take you on the floor of the Magisterium, for all of Tevinter to see, and they’ll know I’ll kill anyone who looks at you wrong.”

“I’m going to kill  _ you _ if you don’t stop talking and start moving,” Cullen gasped. The threat was undercut by the fact that his legs were locked around Dorian’s waist and head was thrown back in something that looked very much like ecstasy. 

Dorian laughed brokenly and buried himself the rest of the way in a series of short, hard thrusts. 

He and Cullen were joined completely then, Cullen’s strong hands digging bruises into Dorian’s arms as he tried to pull him even closer. All Dorian could do for a moment was stare down at him, golden and fierce and utterly writhing on his prick.

“Beautiful,” Cullen panted, taking the words right out of Dorian’s mouth. “Move, move, I need-”

Dorian began thrusting in earnest then, the rub of skin against skin making his legs shake. “Anything you need, anything you want, you’ll have it, perfect and lovely and bouncing on my cock.”

Cullen made a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and then  _ squeezed  _ down on Dorian. It was enough to make his knees go entirely weak, and he nearly toppled forward across Cullen. 

Gripping his shoulders with more strength than anyone with a cock up his ass should have, Cullen’s grin was feral and delighted. “You’re mine now, Pavus.”

All Dorian’s words left him then. He was left with only animal need, heat roaring through him as his hips began to move in frantic, desperate jerks. Cullen moaned underneath him, his head thrown back and the scales of his mark shimmering brighter than ever. Dorian wanted to fucking  _ consume _ him, but he’d settle for making sure he couldn’t walk tomorrow.

The table leg nearest to them groaned, cracked, skewing sideways under the added weight and movement. Dorian didn’t give the slightest damn so long as the table didn’t collapse under them, and he wasn’t going to give it the chance. 

He leaned over Cullen so that he could growl in his ear. “Come for me,  _ pet _ .”

The noise Cullen made, a scream through gritted teeth, would have kicked Dorian over the edge even if Cullen wasn’t squeezing him as tight as a vise. He came so hard that his vision went black for a moment, the world wavering and narrowed down to only the point where he and Cullen were locked together. 

He’d laid claim to the commander in every way, now.

In the aftermath, both of them slumped against the nearest wall. The fireplace was still crackling merrily, as if nothing filthy had just happened. Dorian collapsed against Cullen's side, their shoulders pressed together. He could feel Cullen’s ribs expanding as he panted for breath.

Everything was silent for a moment, then Cullen murmured, “We broke the table. And the plates.”

Something about that made Dorian throw his head back and laugh, a helpless belly laugh that moved through his entire body.

“It’s not funny!” Cullen protested, through his own sex-stupid laughter. “Those belonged to the Inquisition!”

“I will buy the Inquisition 700 new plates and tables,” Dorian declared, running a hand through his hair and still fighting down giggles. “Since I’m apparently going to be keeping you.”

Cullen shot him a look, then laughed again. “And to think, Josephine was worried dinner wouldn’t go well.”

“I’m  _ not  _ going to be nice to you in private,” Dorian warned. Slumped against the wall and pleasantly boneless, he could feel the sweat drying on his skin. “Once I regain all my senses, probably tomorrow, I’ll be downright mean.” 

“A blood mage being mean to me,” Cullen drawled, “however will I recover?”

“I fucked a sense of humor into you, amazing.”

“Shook it loose, perhaps.” He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it into curls. “Maker. It’s been a long time since I did that.”

“Broke a table?” Dorian smirked.

“Had sex.”

Dorian looked over at him. “How long is a ‘long time’, anyway? Do Templars in the south take vows of chastity?”

Something about that made Cullen laugh, and Dorian was struck again by how different he looked when he was smiling. 

“Maxwell asked me nearly the same thing,” Cullen explained, still chuckling. “And no, it’s not required. Some do. I didn’t, not that it made much difference.”

“Saving yourself for me, darling?”

With a sound of disgust that would have made Cassandra proud, Cullen protested, “I was busy! We can’t all be rich wastrels.”

“Well, you will be, now.” Dorian stroked his mustache back into place and glanced sidelong at Cullen. “I’m going to need to train you.”

Cullen gave him a withering look. “Excuse me?”

“In Tevinter customs, of course,” Dorian replied. Then he let himself smirk. “Unless you had something else in mind?”

Cullen grimaced, blushed, made a show of irritation. And in his naked lap, his cock twitched noticeably.

Maker’s breath, Dorian was absolutely _fucked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is an absolute miracle that this chapter was finished at all, because I have been a gross, sickly mess this last week. But the allure of having Dorian and Cullen finally bang it out on Valentine's Day weekend was too perfect.


	13. Chapter 13

He slept after that. How could he not? When Cullen opened his eyes and saw the tile mosaic ceiling of Dorian’s Fade construct, something in him that he hadn’t even known was tense relaxed. There was no sign of Dorian, but he could hear what sounded like furniture being moved from several rooms away, along with an occasional cranky stream of Tevene. Curling deeper into the blankets, Cullen let himself drift away completely.

It was the first time he’d gotten a solid eight hours of sleep in...years? Probably years. Both his body and mind were apparently unsettled by it, as Cullen woke feeling groggy, slightly paranoid, and craving lyrium.

The episode was not an intense one, at least not yet: a headache, a sensitivity to the light, alternating feelings of cold and uncomfortable tingling in his hands. It was unpleasant, but he knew from experience that he’d be able to get through much of the day without faltering. 

Shortly after dawn, Cullen gathered his officers. While his office was almost too small to hold all of them comfortably, he preferred to be on familiar ground for this conversation. 

“An announcement will be going out soon, possibly today,” Cullen began. “It concerns my recovery and...other matters. I wanted to speak with you all ahead of it, so that you can address any concerns brought to you.”

Rylen had pushed his way to the front of the pack and wasn’t bothering to hide his interest. Some of the others were doing a better job of looking stoic, Briony chief among them, but it was clear that they were all eager for news.

And Cullen was about to lie to them all. These people, who had given him their time and trust and loyalty, what would they think of him after-

“As you’re aware, the Inquisitor put his considerable resources to work in finding some sort of cure for me,” Cullen began. If he stopped to think, it would overwhelm him. “He was partially successful. He and his experts uncovered some sort of healing ritual dating back to the elven empire. While not created specifically to purge red lyrium, it was able to heal me.”

“Ser? Does this mean the others can be cured?” Knight-Lieutenant Harrenson wasn’t generally one to interrupt, but Cullen could not blame her in this instance. She was one of the last Templars to join their cause before the Order was corrupted; she and a small group of her compatriots had defected from Therinfal Redoubt the day before all contact from the fortress ceased.

Cullen shook his head. “No, not at present. In addition to requiring enough lyrium to send someone halfway to the Black City, the ritual itself is dangerous to both the mage performing it and the patient. In all honesty, when told of the risks, I did not expect myself or Dorian Pavus to survive the attempt.”

His officers were too well-trained to react verbally to Dorian’s name, but Cullen could see the changes on their faces and posture. Dorian had not endeared himself to any of the troops. Dorian had not endeared himself to anyone, really.

Rylen raised a hand, and when Cullen nodded at him, asked, “Commander? Why was he involved at all?”

For the first time ever, Cullen was grateful that he tended to flush at the slightest hint of embarrassment. It would make the lie more convincing when his cheeks and the tips of his ears were blazing red. With a sigh, he said, “What I am about to tell you does not leave this room. It is...something I would have prefered was never made public.”

His officers leaned in, clearly readying themselves for something either very terrible or very scandalous.

“Pavus and I had engaged in several, erm, dalliances before I was poisoned.” Cullen closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. Doing this without a headache would have been easier, but perhaps his pained expression would make it all more realistic. 

There was dead silence in the room, and then Rylen blurted, “You and  _ Pavus? _ Uh, ser?”

“It’s not something I’m especially proud of!” Cullen snapped. Thank the Maker he was always terrible at discussing anything personal. None of his officers would find it odd that he was so jittery and surly. He waved his hand vaguely. “He is...very handsome. Especially when he isn’t talking.”

He was mildly startled to see several of the officers nodding in grudging agreement about Pavus. Maker’s breath, they all needed to get out of Skyhold more.

“It was never meant to be anything but a--well, it was never meant to be anything.” Cullen forced himself to keep going. “A diversion and nothing more. But the ritual...if completed successfully, it forges a permanent bond.”

“A ‘bond,’ ser?” Rylen asked, raising an eyebrow. Most of the others wore similarly skeptical expressions, and Cullen felt a sudden, fierce glow of pride. They did not fear that he would berate them for asking questions, for respectfully challenging him. They trusted him enough to know they could speak their minds, and they were asking precisely the right questions.

It was such a sharp contrast to Kirkwall, in every way. He swallowed down his affection. There would be time to warm himself with it later, when he didn’t have a performance to put on.

“I had much the same reaction,” Cullen said. This next part had been practiced extensively with Cassandra, the two of them trying to suss out some way of describing it that didn’t scream blood magic. “Solas’ initial translations were alarming, to say the least. But further research and translations that didn’t involve dramatic poetic metaphor helped greatly. I have a sense of him, in essence, and he of me. I’m aware when he is nearby, and can tell if he is in some sort of distress.”

“When you say that you can tell, what does that mean, Commander?” Briony this time, her arms crossed.

“I would describe it as a gut feeling. Like knowing something is wrong even before you enter a room, or knowing someone is watching you.”

He and Cassandra had decided to ground the explanations in something everyone had experienced, something all of their warriors would instinctively understand. The goal was to de-emphasize the magical aspects as much as possible, although they knew that would be an uphill battle.

That was made clear when another officer raised his hand. Knight-Captain Pritchard, once of the White Spire, asked, “Ser? I have friends among the mages, and there have been whispers…”

_ Fiona. _ Granted, it could have been Enchanter Ellendra, but the same gut feeling that all of his soldiers knew pointed Cullen at the Grand Enchanter. She had been talking, whether idly or deliberately.

Well. Better they knew now, at this early juncture. Perhaps that had been Vivienne’s intention all along.

Cullen kept his tone normal. “What sorts of whispers, Captain?”

“That the ritual left some kind of mark on you that only mages can see. That Pavus has...has essentially branded you.” The concern leaked through even as she tried to keep a stiff face.

“The whispers are correct, after a fashion.”

“Ser?” Rylen’s brow furrowed.

Cullen launched into a very,  _ very _ pared down explanation of the strange serpent tattoo. No mention of ‘marks of ownership’, for one thing. If he kept it as basic as possible, perhaps he and his officers could convince people it was no different than a scar - accidentally acquired, not debilitating, nothing worth commenting on.

That wouldn’t work on the mages, but that was an entirely separate basket of snakes that Cullen would not touch right now.

“And so, in order to make this entire debacle look less haphazard, Pavus is declaring me his ‘consort’.” Cullen made sure to roll his eyes extravagantly, to try and play all of this off as the fripperies of the Great Game. “I will appear at the occasional party, act as if I don’t find it all a waste of time, and hopefully it won’t otherwise interfere with my duties.”

“What exactly is a consort, ser?” Rylen’s expression was hard to read, but it didn’t seem negative. Cullen prayed that was a positive sign.

“It’s the equivalent of a mistress, and whichever one of you is tittering had better quiet down immediately!” Cullen aimed a scowl at the room in general. “Obviously, I’m not his--his mistress. But the facade of it lends some legitimacy to the whole process, and that will apparently soothe our noble allies. As I said, it won’t interfere in my duties, and once the war is over, Pavus and I will part ways amicably.”

“As amicable as you ever are with Pavus, ser,” Rylen added, and Cullen had never been more thankful for him. Adding levity to this had already visibly relaxed several of the officers.

“Not at each other’s throats, at the very least,” Cullen agreed. “At the very least, it’s important that you all know the truth of things. Adjust the message to your troops as needed, and come to me if you see any problems beginning. This is an odd situation but…”

He looked at his officers, all of them the finest the Inquisition had produced. That warm, fierce glow of pride was back again. “But I am very glad to have returned to you.”

**\---**

True to his word, Dorian signed the patronage contract that afternoon. True to his nature, he insisted for a good minute and a half that these things were usually signed in blood. It wasn’t until Maxwell threatened to go ask Bull that the magister finally stopped needling Cullen and just signed with a quill and ink. The only condition he demanded was that Cullen take at least two hours out of each day to be ‘instructed’ in the proper behavior of a consort. 

Worryingly vague, but it also wasn’t included in the actual language of the contract. He figured that would give him some wiggle room for objections. The contract itself was, as Leliana phrased it, ‘disturbingly precise.’ Josephine had based it on the most permissive examples available, but even those allowed a patron to collect a consort’s income and restrict their movements.

Cullen’s handwriting was a bit shaky as he signed his name underneath Dorian’s. It wasn’t just from the lyrium pangs, although those had not abated as the day wore on. Without the heady mix of the ritual’s trigger words and his own shameful lust, Cullen found his boldness had faded considerably. Once he finished the final stroke of his signature, all he could think was that he’d made a terrible mistake.

“Right!” Dorian said briskly. “Josephine, I trust you’ll draw up something suitably celebratory to send out. Maxwell, don’t ever say I didn’t give my all to this Inquisition. And Cullen? Come with me.”

“I have business to--”

Dorian tsked and wagged a finger at Cullen. “Did you not just agree to two hours out of your day? Reneging already? Shameful. The ink isn’t even dry.” 

Maxwell sighed, “Dorian, you’ll need to be flexible in the future. Cullen has a busy schedule.” The pleading look he directed at Cullen was as puppy-ish as ever. “But can you go with him right now?”

Cullen wanted to object out of principle, but truth be told, early afternoon would probably be the only time he could spare for this sort of nonsense, at least for the next month. Afterwards, he might be able to move it to late morning, assuming he left troop drills in the hands of-

“Cullen?”

“What? Oh.” Perhaps he was more scatterbrained than he realized. “Fine, yes. Let’s get this over with.”

“Ah, there’s what any patron likes to hear!”

Walking down the hall at Dorian’s side felt strange. Too open, too obvious, even if he knew that no one would think anything untoward of it.  _ Yet, _ anyway. Word hadn’t had time to spread. The real test would be the coming days. Not everyone respected him the way his officers did, and he cringed at the thought of the visiting nobles pointing and whispering-

“When I told you to come with me, I wasn’t just looking for an escort, Rutherford.”

Dorian’s voice shook him out of his thoughts, and Cullen realized that they’d reached the mage’s room. He had kept walking, lost in his own ruminations. Dorian held the door open for him, eyebrow raised.

“Just thinking,” Cullen explained brusquely, almost glad for the lock clicking closed behind him. At least they were safe from the public eye, for now.

Instead of responding with something biting, Dorian just circled him. The look on his face was focused, as if Cullen was a rare specimen that was about to be dissected. It made Cullen want to squirm, but he kept himself still. Right up until Dorian unexpectedly tapped him on the arm and caused him to jolt in surprise, the movement instinctive and jittery.

He was tightly wound anyway, and the withdrawal symptoms had chosen a fine day to flare up. Still, it was just two hours. He could muddle through this, no matter how Dorian prodded him.

“We’ll need to get you used to it,” Dorian finally said, never looking away. “Think of it as practice, if you like.”

“Used to what?”

The smile spreading across Dorian’s face was wolfish. “Being touched by me, of course.”

Cullen rolled his eyes so hard that he fancied he could see the back of his skull for a moment. His headache, already a low pulse, spiked. “We’ve already been i-intimate once, I’m sure it won’t be hard to-"

He was interrupted by Dorian’s laughter. It was amused, but not particularly nice. “You nearly leapt out of your skin just now at nothing more than a tap on the shoulder. That’s the kind of detail that will give us away in an instant. As far as I can tell, you barely touch anyone who you aren’t in the process of attacking, and you react to any contact like a cat having its tail stepped on.”

“No one is going to notice or care about that, don’t be ridic-”

“Did you argue this way with the Templars who trained you?” Dorian imitated a nasally Ferelden accent. “‘No one will care about my footwork. No one will care about how I hold my shield. Don’t be ridiculous, Ser Whatsit of Who Cares’.”

After an offended pause, Cullen said, “I do  _ not  _ sound like that. But...I take your point.” He rubbed the back of his neck, digging his thumb into the hollow of his skull in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure. “You really think that’s something the nobility will notice?”

“Under normal circumstances, perhaps not. But when they likely already suspect that the Inquisition is lying about something, even if they aren’t sure what? We can’t afford an obvious, amateur tell like that.”

“Fine.” Cullen shifted from foot to foot. “What do you advise, then?”

“Hmmm.” Dorian tapped his lips with his index finger, thinking. “I’d like to try something. You recall how tactile you were when you were forced into being, oh, what was the phrase I used, again?”

Cullen gave him a flat, irritated look.

“Ah yes, ‘my sweet little pet’.” Dorian grinned. “I’d be interested to see if any of your altered state will carry over, even subconsciously. This will kill two birds with one stone.”

Cullen gave him an even more irritated look. “It’s the middle of the day and I have to be on the training field in an hour and a half, Pavus. We aren’t having sex.”

“That wasn’t what I was proposing, but if you’re so eager, I could oblige you.” Dorian clapped him on the shoulder, all faux seriousness. “Anything for my sweet little pet.”

“You are the worst person in Skyhold and I mean that sincerely.”

“There you are, already starting the fun.” Dorian grinned and waved a hand. “Continue.”

Damn it all. But at least the afternoon would pass a little faster.

It was actually harder than he expected to summon a Dorian’s list of faults on command. It was not because the list had grown any shorter. But between the unexpected refuge Dorian had granted him in dreams and their activities the night before, the urge to punch his teeth down his throat had faded into mere annoyance. The growing headache didn’t help him think on his feet, either. 

In the end, he mostly repeated his earlier tirade against Dorian while he took off his sword and armor, leaving him in his trousers and arming jacket. The feeling of giddiness rose in him as he spoke. He had just enough time to think,  _ Oh good, it doesn’t have to be original each time, _ before a series of helpless giggles overtook him and he had to sit on the ground to keep from falling.

When the dizziness cleared, he grinned up at Dorian. “You shouldn’t frown, your face will get stuck like that.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “As if you have any room to talk.”

He circled Cullen again, studying him with a serious expression. Cullen found that he didn’t like it. The circling wasn’t bad, since it could easily serve as a prelude to something else. But Dorian’s expression lacked any humor, any real feeling at all. He looked at Cullen like he was a problem that needed solving. It was a far cry from the naked want that he’d shown last night, and Cullen felt his shoulders hunching slightly.

It felt like he had done something wrong.

“Now, what to do with you?” Dorian mused.

That was an opening. “I could lie in your lap again, and you can feed me the grapes this time? That would be nice.”

But that just made Dorian’s brow furrow. “Have you eaten at all today?”

It wasn’t that Cullen couldn’t lie, exactly. It was just that the urge to be honest with Dorian was so much stronger. “No?”

Dorian stared down at him in confused irritation.  _ “Why? _ Is this some sort of Templar thing? Self-punishment? What do you gain from starving yourself and sleeping once every three days, exactly?”

Cullen couldn’t help but shrink beneath his gaze. He felt Dorian’s displeasure like a lash against his skin. “I...it’s n-not...I’m sorry?”

Dorian sighed and turned away, walking to the bed. He sat on the edge and grabbed a pillow, laying it in his lap. “Come up here. In my lap, as you were last time.”

Scrambling happily to obey, Cullen stretched out on the bed and wriggled until he was comfortable. The pillow smelled like Dorian, and he nosed happily against the other man’s stomach.

Dorian looked down at him, his expression hard to read. “I’d assume you were being manipulative if I didn’t know you better.”

“I’m not!” Cullen protested. “I don’t even think I can lie to you when I’m like this.” 

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Try.”

Cullen thought for a minute. “The Inquisitor is a Qunari spy?”

There, that lightened Dorian’s expression just a little, his lips quirking. “Too easy. Let me try. What is your worst fear?”

“Being helpless in the hands of someone who wants to hurt me,” Cullen answered, the words simply tumbling out. He didn’t even want to answer, not really. But as long as Dorian wasn’t pressing directly on the horror that was Kinloch Hold, it was just so easy to tell him the truth. It would make him happy, and  _ oh, _ Cullen wanted him to be happy.

Above him, Dorian looked troubled, not happy. With a careful movement, he reached out to stroke Cullen’s hair. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know.” It was the truth, and slipped out just as easily as everything else.

But Dorian only rolled his eyes and tugged on Cullen’s hair sharply. “I know you’re in a state of puppy-like bliss right now, but grant me a little credit, Rutherford. I can recognize the behavior of someone on the verge of a breakdown.”

Cullen shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You barely eat and you don’t sleep unless someone fucks you into a stupor. When I  _ do _ fuck you into a stupor, you spend the next morning wincing and cringing when you think no one can see you. When I watched you with the troops this morning, you threw yourself into drills like a man possessed.” With a scowl, Dorian added, “I’m self-involved, not oblivious. I’d prefer we not lose the war because our commander spends all his time sobbing into his pillow at the thought of the blood mage that owns him.”

By the end of that, Cullen was shaking his head rapidly. “No! You’re--it’s not what you think!”

Dorian shoved him off his lap with a sharp movement, so that they were sitting and facing each other. “What is it, then?”

This was far from the effortless bliss of last time, and Cullen found himself scrambling. With all his defenses down, Dorian’s obvious irritation was like a splinter under his fingernail, wiggling deeper and deeper. Sharp, painful, impossible to ignore. “It’s the lyrium, I told you!”

“The lyrium? The withdrawals, you mean?” 

Nodding, Cullen said, “I-it’s just bad today. Not terrible, but it does hurt. And I know from experience that it’s harder to keep food down on days like this. I was planning to eat later in the day, when my stomach would be settled.” He inched closer to Dorian, their knees brushing each other. “And I’ve been getting more sleep lately than I have in years.”

Dorian narrowed his eyes. “And you aren’t just saying this to appease me?”

Shaking his head, Cullen offered a teasing smile. “Think of me normally: am I the type to appease you?”

That made Dorian laugh. But his expression grew serious again as he reached out to Cullen, his fingers curling around his throat. “You  _ are _ the type to hide your weaknesses until you’re on the verge of collapse, though. Maxwell has confirmed as much to me.”

His brows furrowed. “I’ve never spoken to Maxwell about anything like that.”

“But you’ve spoken to Cassandra, and she serves at Maxwell’s pleasure, like all the rest of us.”

The twist of emotion that knifed through him completely disrupted the bubbly happiness. He ducked his head, leaning hard against Dorian’s hand for comfort.

“That upsets you.” It wasn’t a question. Dorian’s voice was curious rather than apologetic.

Cullen just nodded, closing his eyes and trying to clear his mind of everything but the happy, floating bliss that had been there moments ago. It was trying to creep back, like the tide creeping up a shoreline. He just had to keep all the dark thoughts away.

“You don’t like having your weak spots prodded, but especially not when you’re like this,” Dorian continued, his thumb tracing Cullen’s jaw. “And yet, you’ll sit here and let me do it.”

Cullen looked at him from under his lashes, wishing that Dorian would  _ stop. _ “If...if you want to, then yes.”

Dorian’s expression was inscrutable, cold. Like a statue rendered in marble. Cullen butted his cheek against his hand softly, not looking away. His voice soft, he added, “I’m yours now.”

That provoked a sigh, and Dorian finally blinked and looked away.  _ “Fasta vass.” _ When he looked back at Cullen, his expression was rueful. “The lyrium withdrawals. You mentioned you were in pain? What hurts?”

“My head aches,” Cullen answered, leaning closer to Dorian. “I feel cold, and my muscles stiffen up if I sit still for too long.”

The corner of Dorian’s lip quirked up, and the look in his eyes reminded Cullen of the night before. “My dear commander, I have an idea.”

That was how Cullen came to be shirtless and facedown on the bed, moaning softly as Dorian massaged all the pain out of him. The mage sat on Cullen’s thighs, his hands covered in some kind of oil that smelled like lavender. He was half-hard, Cullen could feel him grinding against his ass, but it hardly seemed worth noticing as Dorian dug his thumbs into a stubborn spot on his spine.

“Maker above, your back is like a slab rock,” Dorian murmured. “This started as an excuse to grope you, but I’m amazed you haven’t pulled something, walking about like this.”

Dorian’s hands were warm, magically so, the heat of a fire safely contained within his skin. If Cullen was a cat, he’d have been purring. As it was, he could only slur, “Dunno if I could walk right now, to be honest.”

A velvety chuckle. “Making you weak-kneed and helpless does seem to be a specialty of mine, doesn’t it?”

Cullen was gloriously relaxed, his back, shoulders, and neck loose for the first time in...hmm. Possibly ever. His eyes half-lidded, he rubbed his cheek against the silk sheets, basking in the sheer sensory delight of it all. “Let’s do this every day, please.”

Dorian leaned across his back. Against the shell of his ear, he murmured, “Would you like that, Cullen? If I kept you like this always, warm and pliant, without a thought in your head?”

_ “Yes,” _ Cullen moaned, his toes curling happily as Dorian dug into spot on his shoulder. 

“Hmm.” Dorian settled his fingers in a line along Cullen’s lower back. “And what about now?”

That was all the warning Cullen got before Dorian undid the spell, the blissful happiness vanishing like dust caught in a strong breeze. He was once again painfully aware of himself, of all the responsibility resting on him. He once again had the sense to remember Dorian was dangerous. _ _

Yet...the massage had done wonders for his headache, soothing it away entirely aside from a small twinge if he moved too quickly. And he felt so  _ warm, _ like he’d been lying next to a cozy fire for hours. Some part of him still wanted to buck Dorian off of him. But it had been a very long time since he’d been without pain.

“That was needlessly dramatic,” he finally said, his tone mild. 

Dorian barked out a surprised laugh. “That could be used to describe nearly anything I do, Commander.” 

Cullen cracked an eye open to study Dorian. “Did you expect me to panic?”

“Perhaps.”

He considered that, then closed his eyes and settled in against the bed. “There’s 30 minutes left. You may as well continue.”

Above him, Dorian laughed. “You surprise me, Commander.”

“...you may as well just call me Cullen, now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not completely happy with this chapter, but I wanted to get it posted. Think of it as the calm before the storm.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is sort of an experimental chapter, and marks the midway point in the story. Well, what I think is the midway point, anyway! Let me know if you guys enjoy it, and I might do short vignettes from other POVs in a similar way later on.

Josephine showed him the announcements before they were sent out for printing and delivery. Minus all the frippery and embellishment that came with anything nobles did, the content was blessedly to the point: Dorian had officially taken Cullen as his consort. The Inquisition was so very proud to serve as an organization that could unite all corners of Thedas so personally. Gifts and inquiries could be directed toward Ambassador Josephine Montilyet. Praise the Maker and all that.

_ It will be fine, _ Cullen told himself.  _ It will all be fine. _

\---

_ A Short Sampling of Reactions to the News of the Happy Union Between Commander Cullen Rutherford and Magister Dorian Pavus, c. 9:41 Dragon.  _

**The Jeweled Quarter, Qarinus, Tevinter Imperium:**

“Interesting.”

Magister Maevaris Tilani was not a stupid woman. She knew Dorian Pavus had been circling her for some sort of alliance since he’d ascended to his father’s seat in the Magisterium. For a few brief weeks, she’d worried his goal had been a marriage to unite her family’s money to his family's political clout. The Dorian she had known when they were both students in the Circle would never have proposed such a thing, but the Magisterium had a way of changing people. 

Fortunately, it had not been a marriage proposal. After so much happiness with Thorold, Mae knew that she wouldn’t be able to stomach a business arrangement masquerading as a marriage. Instead, Pavus had suggested their political interests might align.

“It is not your politics I take issue with, Dorian,” Mae had said, “but your methods.”

“Can we afford idealism, when our nation hangs on the brink?” Pavus had responded.

An impasse, and that had been that, at least for a time. They still often found themselves on the same side politically, but the idea of a true alliance made Mae uneasy. There was a darkness in Pavus, an anger that was not buried nearly deeply enough. She kept him at arm’s length, and he had shown little interest in pushing for more. When he’d gone south, Mae had taken little notice of it.

And now here he was, taking a Ferelden  _ soporati _ as his consort and ensuring that she was one of the first to get the news. Mae was no fool; this gossip would hit the social circles like a wildfire on a dried savanna. If she was hearing about it before 20 different society matrons made a show of clutching their pearls, it was because Pavus had designed it that way.

_ Why? _ An attempt to show that the south had softened him? Mae had doubts. Some sort of offering, proof that he had renounced blood magic the way the Inquisition claimed? Taking a southern Templar to his bed would certainly make the forbidden arts a struggle, that was true. Unless of course that Templar was enthralled. But with the whole of the Inquisition surrounding them…

It was a risk, Mae knew, diving into this when Pavus was still such an unknown. But with the Venatori clandestinely gathering allies every day, it was important that everyone with a bit of sense and sanity band together. There was a hole in the sky, for the Maker’s sake.

And so Mae sent back a message of congratulations, and a note:  _ “I would be delighted to know more about your compatriots in the Inquisition. They seem very agreeable, and there’s a true shortage of agreeableness as of late.” _

If this turned out to be a trap, well...at least Qarinus was a long, long way from the Frostback Mountains. That would give her time to run, if nothing else.

**The Gilded Crescent, Minrathous, Tevinter Imperium:**

_ ‘Play along, Mother, or I will cut off your drinking money. -D’ _

Dorian liked to pretend as though he controlled the purse strings for the entire family, as if Aquinea was some _laetan_ widow living off her husband’s army pension. Most of the extremely sporadic messages Dorian had sent over the last two years consisted of some manner of financial threat. Aquinea supposed she could have pushed back and reminded the little brat that she didn’t raise him to speak to her that way, but she  _ did _ rather enjoy getting drunk using her late husband’s money.

And so, when she’d received Dorian’s very cryptic message, Aquinea had simply rolled her eyes and continued trying on earrings for the salon later that evening.

Still, she did appreciate the warning, at least in retrospect. Dorian might have been a willful little wretch with no sense, but he had the common decency to give a hint to his longsuffering mother. That evening, when she heard Cassia Marcaelus tittering behind her like a schoolgirl and asking, “Oh, Nea, darling, is it  _ true?” _ , Aquinea knew immediately that it was connected to Dorian.

_ You fucking brat, _ she thought, sipping her wine and executing an absolutely flawless eyebrow raise in Cassia’s direction.

“Is what true? You’ll need to specify, Cassia.”

With a particularly smug smile (and  _ ugh, _ she was surrounded by her toadies who thought clinging to the robes of some upjumped vintner family would elevate them), Cassia handed her a piece of parchment.

It had the weightiness of some sort of official announcement, and Aquinea observed the quality of the paper and ink with an approving glance before actually reading the words.

House Thalrassian had always been particularly fertile, and thus Aquinea had spent her formative years in competition with all of her other siblings for every scrap of influence, blackmail, and power that could be gained. Battle-hardened as she was, Aquinea did not go pale, or swoon, or set the parchment on fire at the news that her only son had taken a _male, barbarian_ _soporati as a consort._

It was a close thing, though. A lesser mage and woman would have burnt the villa to the ground.

“Ah, yes, he mentioned that an announcement would be going out soon.” Aquinea made a show of scanning the page up and down, like she was looking for anything out of place. In truth, she was trying desperately to glean as much information as possible to make this farce believable. “Apparently, this commander is quite taken with him. You know how southerners are.” 

“But a  _ soporati!” _ Cassia pressed her hand to her heart, as if shocked beyond the telling of it. “My darling, I don’t know how you could stand it!”

“Isn’t is a bit...uncouth for him to take a man as his consort so openly?” asked the lickspittle on Cassia’s left, whose name Aquinea couldn’t be bothered to remember. “Especially after that broken betrothal!” 

They were beginning to draw a crowd, the rest of the salon oh-so-subtly quieting and leaning in to catch every word.

“And that Inquisition’s commander, isn’t he a Templar? I hear the southern ones are little better than rabid dogs,” intoned Florin Burrienus, as if he wasn’t regularly fucking some Antivan Crow too ill-bred to even have a surname. “Not one of them knows their place, and your boy has gone and made him an honorary citizen?”

If Cassia hadn’t been such a stupid cunt, she would have sprung the questions on Aquinea without even giving her time to read the announcement. But the Marcaelus family had an unfortunate strain of Rivaini blood in them and were thus prone to impulsiveness and missteps like this. 

Aquinea took a deep breath and sat heavily on a convenient chaise. “My friends, I must be honest, I’m overjoyed that he’s stopped dragging his feet on this and finally made it all public. You can’t imagine what it was like, having all this gossip and not being able to share it!”

This would take all of her skill. Fortunately for the reputation of House Pavus, Aquinea had plenty of skill.  _ 10 hours I’m in labor with you, Dorian, and this is how you repay me? _

“So it’s all true?” Cassia asked eagerly. Practically the entire room was leaning in now.

Aquinea took a sip of her wine and smiled sunnily. “Oh yes.”

The room practically exploded into little pockets of chatter. Aquinea was pleased to see that when she opened her mouth to speak, they all went quiet.

“You can’t  _ imagine _ how suspicious they are of anyone from Tevinter in the south,” she said, leaning back against the chaise dramatically for effect. “My Dorian travels all that way to lend a hand against those dreadful cultists, and so many still don’t have the sense to know they should be appreciative! But that’s the barbarian way, I suppose.”

The room was silent now, clay in her hands.

“From what Dorian tells me, a band of upstarts wanted to throw him out of the Inquisition entirely once they sealed the Breach!” Aquinea shook her head as if in mourning. “When Dorian was one of the key advisors for the entire affair! Apparently, things were getting quite heated, an argument happening in a  _ tavern, _ if you can believe it.”

“Isn’t that where all Ferelden business takes place?” Someone called out, to appreciative laughter.

Aquinea laughed along with them, smiling indulgently. “Just so! Anyway, it was looking increasingly likely that Dorian would need to have a firm hand with those rogues, when who should rise to his defense but the commander himself? A southern Templar, yes, but he was absolutely fierce in his defense of Dorian’s efforts on behalf of Tevinter. Apparently, since their false Chantry has fallen into chaos, more and more of the faithful are looking towards Tevinter for inspiration.”

Was even a bit of that true? Of course not. Could anyone prove otherwise? No, and that was really all Aquinea needed.

“Ever since then, this--” a quick glance to the announcement, the motion disguised as a sip of wine, “Cullen has proved a steadfast ally.”

“A southern Templar, allying himself with a magister?” Caladrius Norbana sneered, making no effort to his skepticism. “The fools think we’re little better than boogeymen, from what I hear.”

Amazing Caladrius could hear anything, buried headfirst in his slaves’ skirts as he tended to be. Aquinea sent him a sweet smile. “I thought the same thing, my dear! You can’t imagine how I worried! But this commander actually served in those dismal little prisons they call Circles, and had seen how dreadfully mages were treated by people too foolish to know better.”

“Is it true that they drown children who show signs of magic?” asked the host of the salon, Aralena Valteus. The entire party was gathered around Aquinea now, listening raptly.

“Dorian  _ has _ hinted at such atrocities,” Aquinea sighed, “though I’ve asked that he spare me the gory details. I worry enough for him as it is. But Dorian is very resolute that he will not be cowed by barbarian fools. The Inquisition’s commander found that commendable, and the two began to work together more closely, in the manner of our own Templars. And then, of course, Dorian put his considerable charm to work.”

Aquinea shook her head and laughed, as though Dorian’s tendency to try and fuck any pretty thing with a pulse and a cock hadn’t ultimately gotten her idiot husband murdered. Given the way some of the younger, prettier men in the party cleared their throats or looked away quickly, they were apparently very aware of Dorian’s ‘considerable charms.’ 

“But to make him a consort?” Cassia said, dropping just the right amount of scorn into her tone. “What could he have been thinking?”

“You forget that Dorian’s mission is not just a practical one, Cassia.” Aquinea aimed for a tone of light scolding, rather than the tone she wanted to use, which was:  _ shut your fucking mouth, you cow. _ “For too long, the southern nations have run wild like willful children while we have been dealing with the Qunari. It is time to remind them that Tevinter is leagues ahead of their  _ soporati _ nonsense.”

“If House Pavus is agitating for a southern invasion, it seems like the Venatori might be better allies.” That was some altus from House Servis, a weaselly bloodline in general.

“Invasions are the way of the past, my friends,” Aquinea said, flapping a hand dismissively. “We have shown we can conquer the entirety of the continent already. Governing it, though is a different matter, very tedious. No, by taking this young man as his consort, Dorian is simply reminding the barbarians of a simple truth: we are their betters, and if they would allow it, we could elevate them to lives they have never dreamed of.”

There. That line of horseshit would, at the very least, get her through this party. 

Aquinea spent another hour and a half at the salon, smiling and chatting and answering all sorts of inane questions. She bought herself a thirty minutes by fabricating a story about how Dorian had led the Inquisition against a misguided cult that worshipped the darkspawn, wiping it out entirely and preventing another Blight, no doubt. What a hero, her boy! What a fine, upstanding representative of Tevinter’s might! When she took her leave, it was with great pomp and promises to keep everyone updated with intriguing news from the south. She strolled to her carriage at an unhurried pace, wishing a few final partygoers well before climbing in. 

Then she barred the door, hyperventilated for a good minute and a half, and downed three glasses of brandy in short order. She spent the entire ride home mentally composing the letter she was going to send.

**The Imperial Palace, Val Royeaux, Orlais**

The court was abuzz with the news, thousands of speculations flying like arrows on a battlefield. What did this mean, what machinations were behind it? What did the Inquisition hope to accomplish, by temporarily giving their commander’s hand to the magister in their presence? Was it a political play? Blackmail? Prelude to some kind of firmer alliance with Tevinter?

“Were one of them female, I would assume an inconvenient pregnancy,” laughed Lord Durand. “We can safely rule that out, unless the Inquisition hides more secrets than we knew.” 

Empress Celene Valmont had been fairly quiet since the news broke midway through that evening’s soirée. An occasional neutral comment here or there was all that she had offered for the last ten minutes or so. For a woman who lived and breathed the Great Game, it was an unusual pause. 

Safely behind her mask, she let her eyes drift to the small alcove just off the staircase. That had been Briala’s favorite spot to lurk during events in this room. A perfect view of everyone and all exits, she had said. 

To see the alcove empty when the rest of the room was full of life still seemed wrong. Celene nearly expected to see an outline where Briala ought to have been, like a painting that had been taken from a wall. 

But the past could not be undone. To linger too long risked both the present and the future.

So Celene turned her gaze from the alcove and said, during the next pause in the conversation around her, “How lucky for them! To find love in the midst of so much chaos and sadness. May we all be so fortunate.”

That was vague enough to set the court buzzing anew. Not a condemnation, what did the Empress know that everyone else did not, what did all the heads of state know? On and on and on, new volleys of speculation that Celene monitored like a crow above the battlefield.

She kept her eyes off the alcove.

**Le Repaire des Lions, Val Chevin, Orlais:**

“Hmm.”

Gaspard de Chalons, rightful emperor of Orlais, was a difficult man to read. Even Jacque, who had served as valet in his household for over a decade, still struggled to anticipate his master’s moods. It was not that the Grand Duke was prone to fits of temper or any such thing; he was by far the best and most even-handed noble Jacque had ever had the honor of serving. But any good servant quickly figured out their master’s routines and preferences and quietly adjusted their schedules around it. The Grand Duke had no set schedule, no routine.

It was the chevalier in him, Jacque supposed, refusing to fall into a complacent rut. 

“Is there any message I should convey, either through the courier or to your court, Emperor?”

“Not yet.” Gaspard adjusted his mask slightly, the closest thing to a visible show of interest he provided. “You have family in Ferelden, yes?”

Caught off-guard, Jacque nodded. “Yes, Emperor. Cousins and the like. My grandfather was permitted to bring his household to Orlais after King Meghren was ousted from the country.”

“They do not traditionally show much interest in the Game, the Fereldens.” 

“No, my lord. Their nobles are very blunt. Like hammers, my cousin Evangelique tells me.”

“And yet, here is the Ferelden commander making an alliance with a Tevinter, of all things.” Gaspard tapped the paper once. “For now, we will monitor this. This Inquisition draws allies from the strangest corners.”

**The Royal Palace, Denerim, Ferelden:**

“It didn’t take long for someone  _ else _ to decide to sell themselves to a Tevinter magister. Amazing.”

“Is there something in the water in that part of the country? Should we be concerned?”

“Teagan’s lived there his whole life without selling anybody to anybody else!”

“At least they are safely out of Ferelden, this time.”

“I still think that castle of theirs might be on our land.”

“If you want to be the one to tell the cartographers they must trek out into the Frostbacks to pick a fight with the Inquisition, be my guest.”

**Ariqun Headquarters, Qunandar, Par Vollen:**

_ -A missive sent to Ben-Hassrath leadership through a chain of secret messengers and drop-points. Origin of the missive: a hissrad on special assignment, under deep cover near the Frostbacks Mountains. The missive is written in Qunlat and code. Translated, it reads: _

Announcement going out soon. Mundane details in corresponding uncoded report sent through the open channels. Inq. leadership hiding the use of blood magic from the public. CR as consort meant to obscure and hide effects of blood magic by DP. CR does not seem enthralled. Will continue to monitor his behavior patterns. Sending update on his lyrium withdrawal within two months. Sooner if situation changes.

Situation stable. Not a prelude to alliance with Tevinter or mage supremacist movement. Recommend no extra action at this time. 

_ (“That barmaid keep you busy last night, Bull?” Maxwell asked, laughing as they rode away from the little Orlesian town where they’d spent the night. _

_ “We had a lot to ‘discuss,’ if you know what I mean.” Iron Bull wiggled his eyebrows extravagantly. “She could do this thing with her hands that-” _

_ “I don’t want details!”) _

**The Viscount’s Keep, Kirkwall, the Free Marches:**

The announcement was crumpled, as if someone scrunched it into a ball and threw it against the wall before uncurling it again to write on it. Below all the official seals of the Inquisition, written in the neat handwriting of Seneschal Bran, the message reads:  _ Tell Hawke I have never found his pranks funny. They still are not. I have enough detritus taking up space on my desk already. _

Under that, the messy scrawl of Guard Captain Aveline read:  _ Hawke didn’t send this. Varric would have said. Where did you get this? _

The seneschal’s writing was considerably deeper, as if he was grinding the nib of the quill into the paper:  _ Are you trying to tell me this is real? Absurd. _

Aveline’s reply was characteristically blunt:  _ How would I know? It’s not Hawke’s prank, though. _

The missive was then thrown in a drawer to be forgotten about, until word began filtering in that other cities in the Free Marches had received the same announcement. It was rescued from its resting place beneath 429 noise complaints regarding the Blooming Rose, smoothed out again (for all the good it would do at this point), and re-filed with the rest of the diplomatic correspondence.

**The Royal Palace, Starkhaven, the Free Marches:**

An exhausted sigh. “Tell Hawke he isn’t funny and to stop sending me messages this way. He can write a letter like a normal person. Honestly.”

“This one is real, my prince. We received it from a certified courier.”

_ “...what?!” _

**An Undisclosed Location, Emprise du Lion, Orlais:**

“Son of a  **bitch!”**

Maddox moved back four strides as Samson flipped over his desk, practically vibrating with fury. As the general began systematically destroying his own office in a rage, Maddox retreated through the doorway entirely to ensure he was out of the way of any thrown table legs. Then he simply waited. 

Samson would not seek to hurt him. In all the years they had known each other, Maddox had never witnessed Samson raise his hand against a mage or a Tranquil in anger. It was one of the many reasons that Maddox had felt it was logical to follow Samson out of Kirkwall when he asked.

Idly, Maddox observed that the red lyrium growing throughout the camp was pulsing. The eldritch light within it flickered brighter and darker in turn, almost like a heartbeat picking up speed. He had noticed similar effects on the lyrium when large numbers of the Red Templars were excited, such as in the celebratory aftermath of a successful battle. This was the first time he had ever noticed this reaction in relation to one Templar’s emotions. 

Samson’s control over the lyrium was markedly stronger than what the other Templars had gained, however. Corypheus had ensured that, preventing the corruption from proceeding along normal, fatal lines.

He would record this observation later, Maddox decided, alongside his other notes on red lyrium. The Venatori had expressed difficulties in studying red lyrium properly, and Maddox remained the foremost expert on enchanting with it.

Were he not Tranquil, he might have felt pride. 

The sound of wood smashing had ceased from within Samson’s office, and he appeared in the doorway a moment later. His breathing was elevated and his cheeks were slightly flush. Otherwise, there were no physical indicators that he had just destroyed all of the furniture in his office.

“Maddox,” Samson said, running his hands through his hair to shake off the wood dust, “correct me if I’m wrong: there’s no way to purge lyrium from a body?”

“Correct,” Maddox agreed. Then, to be thorough, he added “While permanent cessation of lyrium use will eventually cause the body to burn through the remnants in the bones and blood, this is a process that is difficult to survive and takes years to complete fully.”

“And red lyrium?”

“To date, I have discovered no way to remove red lyrium from a body once it has taken root. While the tests I am running on corpses may yield results, the red lyrium has so far proven extremely durable in comparison to the blue.”

Samson nodded, his jaw clenched. His tone was discordantly light in comparison to his clear emotional distress. Maddox was not sure what that meant. 

“And the Venatori, they haven’t reported any ways of yanking it out of anyone? Blood magic, shit like that?”

“No. All mages working for Corypheus have reported difficulty with any prolonged exposure to red lyrium, due to the psychological effects. Use of blood magic as a buffer dampens but does not prevent these effects on the caster.”

“Right,” Samson drawled. “So if, say, Cullen fucking Rutherford appears to be in tip-top shape despite me having red lyrium poured down his throat like a baby bird, something shady is afoot?”

“The Knight-Captain’s continued survival makes it likely that the Inquisition has access to knowledge that we do not, yes.”

Samson cracked his knuckles, nodding. “Well. More than one way to skin a nug, I suppose. Time for Plan B.”

**South Reach, Ferelden:**

Rosalie Rutherford loved her job for two reasons. The first was that she’d always had a head for numbers, and the merchant company she worked for (Bright Coast Shipping and Trading, suppliers for half the markets in Ferelden, thank you very much) paid her well to keep their books and make sure none of the freelancers were skimming profit off the top. The second reason was that it gave her access to a vast web of news and gossip, and she was often the first person in South Reach to hear something new when it arrived with the caravans and their logbooks.

So this new shipment from the Inquisition? She had clapped eyes on it before anyone else in town. It would be at least two hours before they got around to nailing the new broadsheets to the town message board, and she certainly wasn’t going to let her siblings find out through someone else.

Clutching a broadsheet in her hand, careful not to smear the ink, Rosalie ran through town like a woman ablaze.

Who was wasting their time with idle chit-chat and pointless snooping  _ now _ , Branson? 

Fortunately for her purposes, Mia was already taking tea with Branson when Rosalie burst dramatically into the shop. While she had a lifetime of ‘bursting dramatically through the doors’ in her, this would be more satisfying if she told them both at once.

“Mind the door, Rosie, one of the hinges needs repaired!” Branson scolded her.

“You’re a blacksmith, why haven’t you fixed it already?” Mia teased, spooning more honey into her tea. “And what’s that you have there, Rosie?”

Without giving Rosalie even a moment to speak, Branson started grumbling, “Because I have so many orders for new horseshoes and mail that I can barely find time to breathe, let alone worry if the shop falls apart around me, and  _ you  _ are being no help at all by making me stop to have lunch, as if-”

“Branson, shut your huge mouth for two minutes!” Rosalie ordered. “I have something important!”

“My mouth’s no bigger than yours!”

“What do you have?” Mia asked, leaning forward curiously. Several wild blonde curls had escaped from her kerchief, giving her a slightly frazzled air.

“Do you both remember three nights ago?” Rosalie was smug as a cat with a mouse in its claws. “When you said that you were  _ so pleased _ that our long-lost brother was finally writing to us more?”

“Maker’s breath, did their new fortress burn down or something?” Branson asked. “Everywhere he goes, something catches fire.”

“Oh no. Noooo, not at all.” With a flourish, Rosalie slapped the broadsheet down on the table, her grin fairly curling off the edges of her face.

Watching Mia and Branson’s eyes go as wide as dinner platters was truly its own reward.

“What’s a consort? Is it--ugh, is Cullen making the beast with two backs with some noble?  _ Our _ Cullen? He couldn’t even talk to that miller’s girl without blush--” Branson squinted. “A magister?! Why is there even--wait, is he rich now? All posh? Are  _ we _ rich now?”

In contrast to Branson’s confused string of commentary, Mia was entirely silent as she read. She simply folded her hands in front of her and nodded once. With the exhausted air of an older sibling who has finally reached the limits of patience, she said, “It’s a shame I’m going to have to strangle him with my bare hands.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Sorry for this chapter coming a week late. I've been, uh, just a tiny bit freaked out about this whole global pandemic thing, and it finally caught up to me. I'm hoping to be able to keep to the same biweekly posting schedule in the future, though. Enjoy, and stay healthy!

Cullen was adjusting. Cullen Rutherford, a man so rigid that Dorian had previously doubted he could even bend at the waist, was  _ adjusting. _ After only three days of halfway platonic backrubs, the commander practically melted back into Dorian’s hands. Dorian hadn’t even needed to put Cullen into his ‘agreeable puppy’ mode after the first day; just the suggestion of another massage had Cullen willingly stretched out on the bed. It had become a routine at this point. Cullen knocked on his door, shrugged out of his armor, shirt, and boots, and then Dorian felt him up for the better part of two hours.

Under normal circumstances, Dorian would have gotten tired of that within a day. He had never enjoyed coy, drawn-out flirtations. Sitting on Cullen’s thighs and feeling the warm, soft heat of his ass pressing against him got Dorian hard every time, and he badly wanted to fuck Cullen into the mattress. 

And yet…

The change in Cullen was palpable. He hadn’t been lying about his sleep habits. The dark bags beneath his eyes were beginning to fade entirely, and his eyes themselves were a little brighter by the day. Other people noticed it too, and Josephine was practically trilling with happiness over it. Cullen no longer jumped when Dorian touched him unexpectedly. When they were alone in his room, the  _ sounds _ that he made: soft sighs when Dorian squeezed his neck, breathless little moans when Dorian rubbed a stubborn muscle, a stuttering groan when Dorian dug his fingers into the meat of his ass.

It made him feel drunk each time, with power and lust and some other tangle of emotions that he couldn’t name. For all of Cullen’s snarling and snapping, a few gentle touches left him practically purring. And Dorian did that, Dorian was the only person in all of Thedas who got to see him that way.

He felt an almost bestial sense of possessiveness, wholly unexpected. It was even worse now that they had gone public with their little charade. To help sell the story, Dorian had been taking breakfast and sometimes lunch with the rest of the ‘inner circle’, sitting next to Cullen as they ate. It wasn’t the first time he’d shared meals with Cullen, but it was certainly the first time they had sat next to each other or allowed their shoulders to brush. Dorian, feeling the eyes of Skyhold on him, found that he  _ had _ to give Cullen a peck on the cheek. He  _ had _ to steal bits of food from his plate or sips from whatever he was drinking. Cullen allowed it with an eye roll, probably assuming Dorian was just being deliberately annoying.

It went deeper though. Every touch, every little bit of intrusion into Cullen’s space, it felt as blatant to Dorian as a dog marking its territory.

_ Mine, mine, mine!  _

And Skyhold was watching carefully. It took all of two days for someone to confront him. He was in his nook in the library when he felt eyes on him. Dorian pretended not to notice, continuing to flip idly through a catalogue of the artifacts they’d been pulling out of the Emerald Graves. He allowed the tension to build until finally the silence was broken by someone clearing their throat.

“Just one moment,” Dorian said, holding up a finger and not bothering to look up at them. “I need to finish this page.” 

Whoever was pestering him hadn’t expected that, and there was awkward shuffling from what sounded like several pairs of feet. Dorian counted down twenty seconds in his head, letting it drag out before sliding a bookmark into place and looking up.

Twelve people stared back at him. He recognized Knight-Captain Rylen and a few of the other Templars, as well as some of the Skyhold staff and Leliana’s agents. Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Sorry about all that; these artifacts aren’t going to research themselves. Now, to what do I owe the crowd?”

The silence stretched out long enough that Dorian began coming up with something suitably witty to say. Then Rylen stepped forward. “Magister. We wanted a word with you.”

“Just a word? You’ve used several already.”

Rylen rolled his eyes in a manner alarmingly similar to Cullen and Cassandra. Was this something the little Templars were taught in the south? “Hilarious as ever. Look, this is about this...thing that you and the Commander have announced.”

Dorian made sure that his grin showed nearly all of his teeth. “If you’re here to warn me against taking his virginity, you’re much too late.”

“Maker’s arse,  _ no _ .” Rylen shook his head. “Cooper? Help?”

One of Leliana’s agents, an elven woman with a Kirkwall accent, spoke up. “We’ve nothing but faith in the Inquisitor and his council. They haven’t steered us astray yet. So if they say you’re on the up-and-up, then all right.”

Rylen nodded. “Aye. If this business with you is what the Commander wants, especially given that you saved him, then none of us will gainsay it.”

Dorian drummed his fingers. “Well, this show of support just fills me with rapturous delight, but-”

“Good chunk of Skyhold thinks you’ve used blood magic on ‘em all.” That was one of the dwarf masons, a gruff, bearded brute named Gendrick. “Doesn’t matter how much all the folk with any sense explain that it don’t work like that.”

Unable to help himself, Dorian said, “Yes, you look like a group well-versed in the arcane mysteries.”

Rylen muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “He wasn’t kidding about it being better when you weren’t talking.”

“I beg your pardon?"

“I  _ said _ those of us who know a damned thing about blood magic or are willing to listen to people who do are plenty aware that you can’t have ensorcelled the entire group,” Rylen said, crossing his arms. “It wouldn’t work on Seeker Pentaghast, for one thing.”

“And if you had the ability to hold that many people completely under your control, including trained mages, you’d be ruling Tevinter, not slumming it here,” Cooper added.

“But?” Dorian prompted, wondering where this was going.

“But everyone’s sodding terrified of you,” Gendrick said, “and some are scared enough to let that ride all over their sense.”

“We’re all doing what we can to keep people steady,” Rylen said. “But we aren’t here all of the time, or even most of the time. It only takes one idiot with a knife to get lucky. So for your own sake, and the Commander’s, don’t provoke people.”

“Is that meant to be a threat?” Dorian asked, delighted at the prospect of getting to thrash someone.

“It’s the exact opposite of a threat,” Cooper snorted. “It’s a warning, sincerely meant. You have allies here who’re willing to help you sell this, but you have to meet us halfway.”

“I’ll make a note of that,” Dorian drawled, careful not to show his surprise. “Now, if that’s all you needed?”

Rylen rolled his eyes again. “We’ll let you get back to your reading, Magister.” And then the lot of them just walked away, a few making curious eye contact before they left.

_ What the  _ fuck _ was that? _ Dorian wondered, flabbergasted. He’d known that the Inquisition inspired great loyalty. They’d all sang a song to Maxwell in the aftermath of Haven, for the Maker’s sake. But it was one thing to see the effects of that loyalty from arm’s length. It was quite another to have people approaching him with the intent to...to what? Become allies? To show support, however grudging? All because he’d tied himself to Cullen? Most of them clearly didn’t even think the “relationship” was legitimate, and they were completely right, and yet…

It left him off balance. He had spent hours letting his thoughts twist themselves into knots over elevating Cullen’s status. It had honestly never occurred to him that having the Inquisition’s commander as a consort might raise  _ Dorian’s _ social status, at least in the south. The thought made him scowl. He had worked very hard to keep from owing anything to anybody. To have acceptance arise from  _ this, _ of all things, was ridiculous.

Not that he cared if this rabble of  _ soporati _ barbarians accepted him. It was the principle of the thing.

The third day post-announcement found Dorian in the mage’s tower, aiming his most imperious glare at Adan. “What do you mean the witherstalk stores are completely empty?”

Adan may have stepped back from his role as the Inquisition’s main apothecary, but it certainly hadn’t improved his mood. “I mean pretty much exactly what you just said, I’m not sure what’s confusing.”

Arms crossed, Dorian glared even harder. “Ridiculous! We brought back enough to kill a bronto last time we were at that blasted oasis, how can it all be gone?”

Adan raised an eyebrow. “Magister, this castle’s full of healthy young men and women who are half-sure the world could end any day. You work it out.”

“So you’re telling me I can’t make any tonics because no one in Skyhold can keep their trousers on or their robes down?” 

“Put in a requisition like everyone else,” Adan suggested, before turning away as if Dorian wasn’t there at all.

The cheek! Dorian would show him. He’d acquire his own private stash of witherstalk and share it with no one, and then Adan could come crawling to him the next time-

“Magister Pavus?”

Dorian glanced to the staircase. A freckled, middle-aged elven woman was leaning against the railing, staring at him with interest. 

“I don’t suppose you’re here to offer me witherstalk?” Dorian asked.

She smiled. “Alas, no. My name is Marta. I was with the other mages in Redcliffe, when you and the Inquisitor saved the day.”

“We’re rather good at that, yes.” 

The mages had generally kept their distance from Dorian, aside from purely Inquisition business. He imagined a number of them were still sore about the whole ‘attempted enslavement to a Tevinter magister’ thing, never mind that he was the reason that hadn’t happened. The rest just had no idea what to make of him. 

It wasn’t like he was encouraging deep social connections, to be fair. He was here on business, not as some goodwill ambassador. Still, there was no reason to be rude, and his tone was friendly as he added, “Was there something you needed of me? I apparently won’t be making cold resistance tonics today.”

“I wanted to ask about, well...several of us have wanted to ask, I suppose. The Commander is your...consort?” Marta was hesitant as she said it, like she might have misheard it.

Dorian gestured to the battlements. “Indeed he is. Might we walk as we speak? I’d hate to block the apothecary supplies,  _ assuming there are any left at all. _ ”

“Oh, just get out already, I’ve sorting to do,” Adan groused from somewhere below the counter.

Marta hid a smile behind her hand and nodded, accompanying Dorian to the balcony outside. 

“Now, what were your questions?” Dorian asked, leaning against the railing. Far below them in the courtyard, Cullen was running troop drills.

“It’s not so much the...the consort business,” Marta said, following Dorian’s gaze to the troops below. “But the mark, the one on his face…”

“Not just his face.” If Dorian looked carefully, he could see a glimpse of the tattoo when Cullen’s sleeve rode up.

“Er, certainly. What we were wondering is…” she trailed off, seemingly struggling with the right words. “That mark. It’s a good deal more than just taking him as a consort. Every mage who sees it, we all see the same thing. It’s like--like a collar, or a brand. It’s very, erm, noticeable.”

For all that she was struggling with the phrasing, Marta was still cagey. Her words held no approval or condemnation. 

“In truth, the mark was, ahem, a rather unexpected side effect.” And really, it wasn’t a lie, was it? “We both knew that playing with ancient elven magic might not turn out exactly as expected. But it was that or watch him die.”

“So you and he are...is it more than a political arrangement?” Marta was studying him, her head tilted slightly to the side.

Dorian summoned his most dashing smirk. “Oh yes.”

Marta smiled slightly, because no one was truly immune to Dorian’s charm, and then returned her gaze to the courtyard below. “Then you might...listen, it’s not truly my business, I know-”

“My dear woman, if we all kept to our own business, the world would be such a dull place.” Dorian was curious despite himself about what she was struggling to say.

She smiled again and tucked a lock of hair behind her pointed ear. “All right. So, listen, your consort, he was Knight-Commander Meredith’s man in Kirkwall.”

Dorian felt something curiously like  _ seething fury _ sweep over him all at once. “As in, carnally?”

Marta blanched. “No! Oh Maker, no, sorry, that’s not what I meant! Her right-hand man, her second.”

The urge to shoot fire straight into the sky like a dragon receded. “Ah, I see.”

“And I don’t know what you’ve heard of Kirkwall, but...the Gallows was bad.” She swallowed, her lips twisting for a moment into a grimace borne of ugly memories. “And much of that was Meredith’s doing, especially at the end. Commander Cullen, he was…”

She trailed off and looked at him, clearly hesitant.

“Please, go on,” Dorian said, using the soothing voice that he rarely had a chance to whip out. “Whatever you say here will be in confidence, Marta.”

She nodded and flashed Dorian a grateful expression. “Right. Commander Cullen, he was Knight-Captain then, and he wasn’t...it wasn’t that he was bad, exactly. He wasn’t cruel. But he was very stern, didn’t laugh or smile much, hard to talk to.”

“A frigid prick?” Dorian suggested.

The snort Marta let out was inelegant but delighted. “Yes, er, that. My point is that, he wasn’t  _ nice _ , but he wasn’t a monster. We had...we had our share of monsters. The Knight-Captain was a stickler for the rules, but a fair stickler, if that makes sense? He was as likely to sentence a Templar to lashings as he was to sentence a mage to confinement. If you’d broken a rule and the Templars beat you bloody, he’d still punish you, but he’d punish the Templars too.”

“Not a man with many friends?” Dorian guessed.

“He had a lot of people loyal to him,” Marta explained, “but no, not many friends. The worst Templars, they would go around him, go straight to Meredith, because she was easier to manipulate. The friendliest Templars, the ones we could always count on, they wanted nothing to do with him. He was always interfering in everything.”

“May I ask why you’re telling me all this?” 

Marta sighed, picking at her nails nervously. “He made a lot of enemies in Kirkwall, is what I mean. Among some Templars and among some mages. Most of the mages who were the loudest about hurting him, they left Kirkwall entirely after the Chantry exploded.” She looked at him hesitantly. “They were some of the first to join the mage rebellion, even before it was an official thing.”

“You think some of the rebel mages might try to harm him?” Dorian’s tone was sharper suddenly, his pulse picking up.

“I don’t know,” Marta said, apologetic. “Some of the loudest about putting Templars in their place, they ran off into the hills of Ferelden and I suspect the Inquisitor probably killed a fair share of them. And with him wearing that mark now, I don’t know, that might satisfy a good number of the holdouts.”

“Satisfy?” Dorian was pleased that his tone was fairly neutral.

Marta bit her lip. “It’s...listen, none of it was ever something I espoused, all right? I had friends who were more radical, but to be honest, all I ever wanted was to be left alone to catalogue spirits and-”

Dorian held up a hand. “I believe you, all right? I’m more than familiar with having loud friends. What are you trying to tell me?”

She sighed again. “Even in Kirkwall, before the Gallows fell, there were mages who wanted things to be like...like in Tevinter. With mages ruling. And with the Inquisitor being a mage, and your presence, I--” Marta took a breath, flattening her hands against the stone railing. “Some of them are probably going to approach you and the Inquisitor at some point, asking for more. Fiona ignores the rumblings, says they’re harmless and they have a right to speak. But...she was never in Kirkwall. She didn’t see what happened to Orsino. It can all go wrong so quickly, and...”

The shape of her concern snapped into focus for Dorian. “You fear that some of your brethren might assume that I have gleefully enslaved Cullen and that the Inquisitor and I would be happy to do the same to others?”

She nodded rapidly. “You being a former blood mage scared a lot of them off, but now that...they say that you’ve humbled Cullen, brought him to heel. That the Inquisitor was happy to do it. The old resentments are still there, and--” Marta swallowed and looked away. “Skyhold is the first place I’ve felt safe for a long time. I don’t want that to change. I don’t want someone to throw us all out again.” 

He softened his expression. “Thank you for telling me all of this, Marta. I know it can’t have been easy. It may reassure you to know two things. The first is that Maxwell is not the budding leader of Southern Thedas’ mage supremacy movement, and the second is that anyone who wanted to throw the lot of you out of Skyhold would have to do it over his dead body.”

Marta visibly relaxed, her shoulders lowering by at least an inch. “That’s good to know. That’s very…” She rubbed her wrist, where Dorian could see the faint pink of some kind of shallow scar. “In the Gallows, punishments were often done in groups. Someone would get caught stealing and we’d all be eating gruel that day. It’s something that...people assume one mage speaks for every mage.”

“Well, that’s certainly not the case for Maxwell. Solas, Vivienne, and I are all fond of telling him that he is uniquely foolish on a constant basis, but all for different reasons. Poor boy.”

That surprised another laugh out of her. It was...strange, making an effort to put someone at ease for no particular reason. He supposed it was the Inquisition rubbing off on him. The entire lot of them radiated  _ esprit de corps _ like a musk.

“And as dour and fond of scowling as the Seeker and Cullen are, neither of them would be here if they wanted a return to the old way of doing things,” he added. “This arrangement between Cullen and I really shouldn’t be seen as an indication of anything besides that I am extremely handsome and irresistible.”

Marta looked at him and nodded once. Dorian assumed she was just agreeing with his assessment of his looks (hard not to agree with objective fact, after all), but then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled note. It had clearly been folded and re-folded many times.

“I took this. Intercepted it, I guess, from one of my friends with more anger than sense,” Marta said, her voice low and nervous. “If...if you’re serious that all the mages won’t be punished, then please take this to whoever ought to know. I don’t think any of it is serious, or that anyone had a plan, or something. But…”

She trailed off, chewing her lower lip madly as Dorian read the paper. It was a note that had changed hands many times, and he knew immediately what it was. He’d passed many such notes during his own school days. Apprentices would often leave notes in little drop-points for anyone to find and add to, like a more anonymous version of a town bulletin board. All the best gossip usually came through such notes. How amusing to see that the same system flourished in the south.

This one was covered in different styles of writing. The first few messages were the usual minutiae: some complaints about the weather, an offer to sell elfroot, a dirty limerick about Grand Enchanter Fiona. But taking up an obnoxious amount of space was a drawing of a serpent that Dorian recognized immediately. It was somewhat crude, but it was still a passable imitation of Cullen’s tattoo. Beneath that, in bright and excited blue ink, was written:

_ ‘This is a sign! Once Corypheus is dealt with, the Inquisitor is going to lead us all to the glory we deserve!’ _

A response:  _ ‘Cmdr Grouchy getting a tattoo is a sign?’ _

Blue Ink again:  _ ‘A sign that we need no longer fear the Templars! The Inquisitor will bring them to heel and then mages will rule, the way we ought to!’ _

In a sharp, cursive script:  _ ‘Not this again. Stop stalking the Templars.’ _

Blocky, black script:  _ ‘I think they’re right. Look at that brand. That’s a collar, plain and simple. Pavus owns Rutherford, whether or not the non-mages see it.’ _

A different, loopy style:  _ ‘Who gives and who receives? Cast your vote to the side, no cheating.’ _ Beside that was a small collection of tally marks under his name and Cullen’s, about seventeen in total. Dorian was pleased, in a petty sort of way, to see that he was winning.

Blue Ink returned, clearly annoyed:  _ ‘That’s not the point! The point is that Rutherford was as close to a leader as the Templars had, and now he’s been brought low and shown his place. Soon, we can do that to all of the Templars! We can make THEM feel scared and helpless and weak.’ _

The cursive script once more:  _ ‘Writing this with one hand?’ _

Blue Ink, for the final time:  _ ‘Fuck you all.’ _

Dorian was careful to keep his voice steady and his expression calm when he looked up at Marta. “I agree with you. I don’t think this is anything besides simple frustration. But I will let the inner council know that perhaps some morale boosting might be in order.”

Marta smiled, small and tremulous. “Thank you. I just...I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

He maintained that calm mask until he reached the safety of his nook in the library. Once his face was hidden in a book, Dorian closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He’d meant what he said to Marta - the note was clearly mostly just irritated venting, nothing dangerous yet. But it had brought to mind the idea of Cullen, scared and helpless and weak, and that…

It upset him. It genuinely made him angry, and that was ridiculous.

It made his stomach churn to imagine Cullen suffering,  _ really _ suffering. Not just flustered or angry, but staring up with that hollow-eyed terror that he had shown in his dreams. Dorian could feel his magic thrashing and bubbling in response to his emotions, wanting an outlet. The idea that someone might want to harm Cullen made him want to fight the entire castle barehanded.

The realization sat badly with Dorian. He had become used to compartmentalizing, to only allowing himself to worry about the people he had given himself permission to worry about. That was how he kept himself sane and functional in the viper pit of the Magisterium. It was  _ unacceptable _ to worry this way for Rutherford, to grimace at the idea of him in some kind of distress. Unacceptable, plus stupid; the man was a soldier, he threw himself at people who wanted to kill him as a profession.

Handsome though he was, Cullen Rutherford wasn’t worth throwing away all of his hard-won control. And yet Dorian found he couldn’t wrest it back. Each time he tried to imagine some disaster befalling Cullen, he felt his heart rate pick up and started gritting his teeth without even realizing it. This was madness, this was-

It hit Dorian like a lightning bolt. The ritual. The damned ritual. It had  _ changed _ him, bound him to Cullen in some strange, parasitic way.

Fury coiled in his gut, spitting and hissing like a snake. For a moment, his heartbeat roared in his ears. The ground felt unsteady beneath him, like it might crumble away. For the first time since he’d killed his father, Dorian wondered if he was losing control of his magic. Sparks gathered in his palms, orange and bright, and it took a frightening amount of time to will them away. 

But he was in control. He  _ was _ . 

He waited until Solas left his rotunda, which was an infuriatingly long wait.  _ Fasta vass, _ the elf did nothing besides read, stare at his little art project, and read more. But finally, Solas pushed away from his desk and walked to the door, headed for the gardens. Dorian followed at a deliberately slow pace.

Skyhold’s gardens were mostly empty this time of evening, with much of the castle getting dinner or finishing up their daily tasks. That suited Dorian very well. The bubble of silence that he cast over the gazebo was haphazard, the edges sloppy, but he didn’t care. He was going to choke the life out of Solas.

Solas, unaware that he was in mortal danger, turned to Dorian with an irritated look. “Can I help you? I came out here for solitude, not-”

_ “You!” _ Dorian hissed, sparks jittering between his fingers. “You tricked me!”

“I beg your par-”

Dorian shoved him, the sparks on his hands singing the fabric of Solas’ shirt. “You did something to me during the ritual, changed me in some way! Bound me as tightly to Cullen as he is to me! Admit it!”

Solas just stared at him, and Dorian shoved him again, knocking him back against the gazebo railing. “ADMIT IT! Admit it, you stupid fucking hedge mage!”

The noise Solas let out wasn’t quite a chuckle, but it was close. He shook his head and locked eyes with Dorian and-

For just a moment, Dorian had the sense that something great and terrible was looming over him. It must have been how a rabbit felt when seeing a hawk’s shadow. Every instinct he had, from his refined magical training to his gut-deep, animal fear, they all screamed that he was in incalculable danger. The hair on the back of his neck rose straight up. The sense that he was about to die in a very bloody way was overwhelming.

“It would be an amusing irony, wouldn’t it?” Solas drawled, never looking away from Dorian. “A Tevinter blood mage accidentally enslaved while using an ancient elven ritual to enslave someone else. A sort of divine justice.”

Then Solas looked away across the gardens, and the profound sense of dread vanished completely. “But as fitting as it might have been, I did nothing to you, Pavus. At least, nothing that was not discussed ahead of time.”

Dorian blinked rapidly, trying to understand what had just happened. The adrenaline flooding his system had nowhere to go, nothing to react to. “That’s--no, you did something. Or Maxwell accidentally did something, or-”

“Rather than accusing everyone in the castle, why don’t you describe the problem?” It was Solas’ usual, tart tone, nothing strange about it at all. 

“It’s--I--there’s no--” Dorian worked his jaw furiously for a moment, before finally forcing himself to say, “I’m worried about Cullen.”

“Why?”

_ “I’m worried about Cullen,” _ Dorian repeated, as if the absurdity of it should have been obvious to anyone with a brain.

Solas stared at him, baffled, and then the realization clicked into place. He shook his head, but his tone was surprisingly earnest as he said, “Dorian, the ritual created a bond between yourself and Cullen. It’s entirely normal to be more concerned for his wellbeing now. He is yours in a way that no other person is.”

“No, that’s ridiculous,” Dorian snapped. “I never agreed to such a thing.”

“I told you in no uncertain terms that this ritual would bind him to you on every level.” Solas was annoyed now, arms crossed. “Did you really think there would be no emotional impact on you at all?”

Dorian just glared and turned on his heel without saying a word. He stomped across the garden, taking a particular joy in crushing errant weeds under his heels.

That night, he entered the dreamspace he shared with Cullen as usual. Instead of wandering off into one of his side projects, though, he went straight to the sunroom that Cullen had claimed as his official napping spot. It was unchanged from the first night that he had brought Cullen here, besides that Dorian had conjured a bed rather than a pile of pillows. As usual, Cullen was curled up beneath the furs, sleeping soundly.

Dorian felt rage and loathing well inside him, completely unwarranted but nearly volcanic in their intensity. How dare this stupid _soporati_ just--just sleep! As if being able to shape the Fade wasn’t the dream of most of the Magisterium! As if an entire universe of possibilities wasn’t laid out before him!

As if he had any right to be here in Dorian’s mind.

Power crackled at his hands, and the room around them began to melt and blur. Dorian would show Cullen fear, show him terror, show him that he had no right to Dorian whatsoever. Everything Dorian gave him was an act of charity, and Cullen would beg on his knees for the tiniest scraps of comfort-

_ ‘I really, truly do not have any conditions for you taking up residence here while you dream.’ _

He’d said that to Cullen, reassured him when the other man was shaking and terrified. It had felt natural to do that,  _ right _ to offer comfort and safety, to be a source of protection in a world full of chaos. Even before that, in the midst of the ritual itself…

_ ‘You’re safe here with me. Don’t be afraid, all right? I won’t hurt you. I promise.’ _

The dark, coppery anger that had always been so easy to draw on after Halward’s death abandoned him. Dorian sank to his knees beside the bed, leaning against the leg of it like a child having a nightmare. For years, it had been second nature to smother his empathy under a blanket of cold practicality. It had kept him alive. But now it roared to life, kicking like a drowning man to the surface of the water, all in defense of Cullen.

Cullen, who radiated a sense of peace and pleased gratitude as he slept there, unknowing. Cullen, who melted against Dorian like he’d never been touched kindly in his life. Cullen, who  _ belonged _ to him.

Dorian rested his head on his knees. He did not cry. Instead, he listened to the soft sounds of Cullen’s breathing until the morning came for them both. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter did not originally exist. I had entirely different plans in mind! But Dorian, being Dorian, needed another thousand words of freaking out about his feelings before he was willing to cooperate and let the story proceed. What are you gonna do? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [chanting] Lockdown smut! Lockdown smut!

When Cullen walked into Dorian’s room to find the mage drunk on the bed, his first instinct was to turn and leave as quickly as possibly. Whatever was going on was probably going to be tiresome. But Dorian barked out, “I see you!”, waved a hand, and the door slammed shut of its own accord.

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen sighed, shaking his head. He tried the handle. Locked. 

A few weeks ago, that would have left him seething with discomfort. But despite his misgivings, growing comfortable with Dorian’s touch really was making him much calmer around the mage. He still felt the urge to declare that he didn’t like this, but it was easy to swallow down. Still, he wished he hadn’t taken off his armor before coming. It had seemed like a way to save time, but he’d forgotten that Dorian was some sort of madman.

“What’s the occasion for this, then?” he asked tartly, standing at the foot of the bed with his hands on his hips. “A day ending in Y?”

“Ohhh, aren’t you funny?” Dorian was propped against the headboard, drinking straight from a wine bottle. Despite wearing nothing but a long, silky red dressing gown, his hair and mustache were immaculate. “Mister Good Face, just charming everyone!”

“Mister Good Face?” Cullen repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“I have sacrificed a lot for you!” Dorian yelled suddenly, pointing a wavering finger at Cullen. “You think I haven’t, but I have an--oh Andraste. I sound like my mother. I’m becoming my mother.”

“I think you’ve had quite enough.” Cullen intercepted Dorian’s arm as he brought the bottle to his mouth again, prying it out of his grip despite the mage’s protests. “How long have you been at this?”

“What time is it?”

“Noon.” He put the bottle under the desk, to make it harder to find if Dorian decided to try levitating it back over to the bed.

“Hmm, since slightly before dawn, then. Many hours.” Dorian settled back against the headboard, squinting. “How does Maxwell _ find _ so much wine? Have you seen him hunting it down? Like a dracolisk after candied meat.”

“I’ve never heard that expression and never care to again.” Cullen had yet to forgive that beast in the stables for nipping him when he tried to pet it. “What’s gotten into you?”

“You! You have gotten into me!” Dorian’s tone was accusatory and hurt. 

Cullen scowled. “Pardon me? I haven’t done anything to you.”

The flummoxed noise Dorian made was disarmingly silly. Looking at him like this, drunk and dramatic and sloppy, it was hard to remember how dangerous he was. It was too easy to see him as any other man.

Until he began talking, of course. “Do you know how many people in Minrathous would sell their mother into slavery for the chance at being my consort? And you just stumble into it, into all of it, and you don’t even know!” Dorian laughed, swaying slightly even as he sat. “You don’t know _ anything! _ It’s unacceptable!”

“I agree, it _ is _ unacceptable to get so drunk that you can’t even walk when it’s the middle of the day and you’re supposed to be working.” Cullen was using the sharp, flat tone that his soldiers knew meant danger.

But it just made Dorian laugh. He made a beckoning gesture and said, “All right, come here, I’ll tell you. But it’s a secret, all right?”

Maker save him from drunks who wanted to immediately tell all their secrets. Cullen leaned forward slightly, hoping that obliging would save him the trouble of having to break down the door. It was only when he was within range that he realized, immediately, that this was a trap.

But it was too late. Quick as a striking snake, Dorian’s hand shot out and locked around his wrist, yanking him down. Cullen was immediately boneless, helpless, bouncing onto the bed with an outraged, “Ooof!” 

It was insultingly easy, the way Dorian overpowered him, rolled him onto his back despite Cullen’s best attempts at punching him in the face. Insulting, humiliating, and the worst part was that he felt heat coil low in his belly at how effortlessly the mage could manhandle him. It was perverse to draw pleasure from such a thing, and yet he knew the flush in his cheeks wasn’t just from anger.

“Let me up, you drunken-”

“I want you.” Dorian sounded _ sad _ about it, almost on the verge of tears. It would have been much more pitiable if he wasn’t sitting Cullen’s waist, pinning him down with a sure grip on his wrist.

Cullen made a frustrated noise and punched Dorian in the chest with his free hand. The damned ritual ensured it was a feeble, glancing blow that wouldn’t have dislodged a friendly dog, let alone a determined mage. “Get off of me, you idiot!”

“I want you,” Dorian repeated, but this time it was a growl. He leaned forward and grabbed Cullen by the chin, his grip much firmer than it needed to be. He was cycling rapidly between drunken anger and drunken self-pity, apparently. Neither mood seemed inclined to let Cullen up. “It’s eating me alive, and I wanted so badly for it to have been because of the ritual. It’s not fair.”

“Oh, the ritual that was supposed to save me and instead attached you to me like a leech?!” Cullen snapped. His heels ground aimlessly into the bed, all the excess energy of a fight with nowhere to go. “Please talk to me about how that’s not _ fair, _ I’m so bloody sympathetic.”

Dorian’s eyes narrowed, and he dragged Cullen’s face closer to his own. “If I am going to be dragged down into this _ weakness, _ guess what, darling? You’ll drown with me.”

And then, never letting go of Cullen’s chin, he yanked him up into a kiss. It was hard, sloppy, mostly teeth, and yet Cullen found himself gasping into it. He wanted to hide the effect it had on him, hide how the feeling of Dorian biting at his lips made sheer lust shoot down his spine. But the ritual, the orders, it-

“I’ve had trained courtesans who couldn’t moan like you do,” Dorian murmured against his cheek. His breath reeked of wine, he was swaying slightly, and yet all Cullen could do was tremble in his grasp. With his free hand, Dorian reached down to cup the bulge forming in Cullen’s trousers, wringing another moan out of him.

“Get off of me!” Cullen hissed. “We’re not having sex, we’re not going to-”

“You know the magic words,” Dorian sing-songed, giggling to himself at his own stupid joke. “And I’m not hearing them.”

Cullen snarled up at him, writhing futilely. He could simply say ‘I don’t like this’ and be free of whatever bizarre game was taking place. It would be easy. He could do it. And yet, saying it when he wasn’t actively terrified...it felt like admitting weakness, like conceding that Dorian had gotten the better of him. Like blinking first and lowering his gaze, something he _ never _ did.

_ We’re both doomed, _ Cullen realized, groaning internally. Out loud, all he said was, “Go fuck yourself.”

Dorian grinned wolfishly at him, the miasma of wine doing nothing to make him seem less predatory. “Would you like to see a magic trick, dear consort?”

Alarm spiking, Cullen snarled, “Do not conjure up fire, you drunken idio-”

Laughing, Dorian reached back and grabbed Cullen’s ankle. It sent another shivery wave of helpless feeling through Cullen, and he made a stuttering noise of protest. Dorian’s grin never wavered as he released Cullen’s wrist and slid down his body until he was kneeling on the bed, looking up at Cullen through his spread legs.

“L-let go of me.” 

“Ask for my mouth.” Dorian leaned his head against Cullen’s knee. “Beg for it.”

Cullen growled and sat up. Dorian’s grip on his ankle meant that he could only paw helplessly at the mage, but that didn’t mean he would just lie there like some plaything. “Fuck you!”

Dorian pressed a kiss into the side of Cullen’s knee and then bent forward, pushing Cullen back against the bed and hiking his knee up, up, up. It left Cullen lying flat on his back, his left knee bent up and out. He was shamefully exposed, even though he was still fully clothed. His erection pressed hard and visibly through the fabric of his breeches.

“Last chance, Commander.” Dorian was grinning, playful, utterly relentless as he palmed Cullen’s cock through his trousers. “Think of my mouth on you, my lips wrapped around your cock.”

His teeth bared, Cullen panted, “Void take you.”

The strangest thing was that Dorian looked..._ fond _ as he gazed at Cullen, even while he squeezed his stones between one hand in a way that made Cullen squeak. “Everyone who ever had you and didn’t keep you pinned and pleasured was a fool.”

“W-who says things like that?” Cullen huffed, squirming as Dorian rubbed at him. The friction was blunt and artless and so good. He was leaking, beginning to soak the fabric of his trousers. 

“It’s all I can think about,” Dorian babbled, kneading his fingers along the outline of Cullen’s cock. “You’re so good, it’s your fault, everything you do makes me want to keep you, own you, you’re such a good boy for me.”

The words, the praise and the pleasure, it forced a punched-out groan from Cullen. His head fell back and he whined, the words ‘good boy’ purred in Dorian’s accent rattling through him like an earthquake. 

“Oh, he likes that,” Dorian laughed. He was rutting against Cullen’s leg, naked beneath his dressing gown and rubbing his cock directly against the fabric stretched across Cullen’s thigh. Like a threat and a promise, he added, “I’m going to ruin you for anyone else. You’ll never touch your cock again without thinking about _ me.” _

Cullen realized abruptly what Dorian intended, why he’d ‘offered’ his mouth up earlier. He was going to make him come like this, in his pants like some teenager. Fumbling with no strength behind his movements, he reached down to try and force Dorian’s hand off of him. “No, no, don’t…”

Dorian just chuckled, dark and possessive, and swatted Cullen’s hand away. His hips were jerking out a quick, unsteady rhythm against Cullen’s thigh, and he could feel the heat of other man’s erection burning against him. Grinding the heel of his hand against the base of Cullen’s cock, he murmured, “I gave you your choice earlier, sweetling, and you made it.”

His thighs trembling, his breeches soaked through, Cullen could only pant, “No, no, please, I want your mouth, I want-”

“Come for me,” Dorian ordered, and Cullen half-screamed his name as the orgasm hit. The world narrowed down to one point of pleasure, his hips jerking helplessly against Dorian’s palm as he came all over himself.

Like that, trembling and spent, he couldn’t even mount a token protest as Dorian let go of his ankle and slid between his legs. He was grinding against the outline of Cullen’s softening cock as if they were fucking, as if Cullen’s ruined breeches weren’t there at all. His legs, too shaky to hold him, were wrapped around Dorian’s waist like they were making love. The sensation was almost too much, Cullen already left oversensitive from his orgasm.

“Ah, ah, it’s-”

“Be a sweet boy for me,” Dorian murmured in Cullen’s ear, and Cullen went pliant. Feeling Cullen relax against him did something powerful to Dorian, a full-body shiver wracking him as he came on Cullen’s trousers, his spend soaking and mingling with Cullen’s own.

He was wet, and sticky, and very possibly never going to feel clean again. As Dorian flopped beside him and pulled Cullen’s head against his shoulder, he wasn’t sure that he actually cared.

“I warned you,” Dorian muttered, running an uncoordinated hand through Cullen’s hair, “I told you I couldn’t fake this.”

“Yes.” Cullen blinked at him, dazed and boneless. “Yes, I suppose you did.”

“See?” Dorian mumbled, as if that proved something. And then the bastard promptly fell asleep.

\---

The less said about Cullen’s frantic, furious trip to his tower after sneaking from Dorian’s quarters, the better. This was the second time in under a month he’d been forced to scurry through Skyhold like a rat, come soaking his trousers. And both occasions had been because of Dorian fucking Pavus.

The mage didn’t show his face again until well past six in the evening. Cullen was leaning against the fence of the training yard, watching a squadron of recruits run through the final drills of the day. They were doing well, learning to work as a team. It was likely they’d be sent to the Emerald Graves once Cullen and the captains were satisfied with their progress, and so it was important that-

“My, what a lovely evening!” Pavus remarked as he leaned against the fence next to Cullen. He showed no signs of a hangover, and no signs of guilt, either. 

“I see someone’s regained sobriety,” Cullen said tartly, not looking away from his recruits. 

“Mmm, yes, after a very restful nap.” Dorian yawned and stretched. “I had the most wonderful dream about seducing some sweet thing.”

“Ah, is ‘seduction’ the term you’d use for dragging someone into your bed, kicking and screaming?”

“Don’t be sour, Commander,” Dorian purred, leaning against him so that their shoulders brushed. “We both know you could have left at any time, if you really wanted to.”

“Perhaps I was worried you’d choke to death on your own vomit if I left you unattended,” Cullen bit out, still scowling.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Pavus smirk. “What a dutiful consort you are.” A pause, and his voice was low and velvety as he murmured, “My good boy.”

It made Cullen shiver, and he hated himself for it. Jaw clenched, he turned to Dorian and snapped, “I’m three months older than you.”

That just made Dorian smirk wider. “Making your surrender all the sweeter.”

Cullen rolled his eyes and very deliberately turned away from Dorian to look at the recruits. “It’s not surrender. It means nothing. It’s the effects of the ritual and nothing more.”

“Provoking an interesting philosophical question: if the ritual’s effects on us are permanent and far-reaching enough that they cannot be distinguished from our own desires, can we truly say they are not our own desires?” Dorian had adopted a contemplative, academic tone, presumably because he knew that would annoy Cullen the most. “Is the mind truly separate from the will of the body? My experience with blood magic tells me it isn’t, that it is all one interconnected system.”

“I’d suggest you cram your musings about blood magic directly up your ass,” Cullen responded, still pointedly ignoring Dorian, “except I don’t know that there would be room next to your monstrous ego.”

Dorian’s hand was on his chin suddenly, forcing him to look over at him. He was grinning from ear to ear, clearly delighting in provoking Cullen. “Now that’s no way for a good pet to talk.”

Cullen inhaled sharply, ready to punch Dorian’s teeth down his throat, when the mage smiled and added, “Careful, sweet boy. All of Skyhold is watching.”

And they were, Cullen realized abruptly. Oh, the recruits on the field were still focused on their sparring matches, but the people in the courtyard, the guards on the battlements, the merchants in their stalls? He could feel their eyes on him once Dorian pointed it out. So he leaned against Dorian’s hand, an affectionate gesture to anyone observing, and forced a smile as he responded, “If you don’t want all of Skyhold to watch me break your arm, you’ll get your hands off me.”

Dorian just chuckled and patted Cullen’s cheek obnoxiously before withdrawing his hand. “Ah, Commander, I’m going to look forward to annoying you for _ years _ to come. But I am actually here on business. Josephine and Maxwell want to speak to us, about some event they have planned. Be a dear and come along.”

With a grunt, Cullen pushed off the fence and strode towards the keep. He’d seen enough of the drills to make training recommendations to his captains, and he knew Josephine would not waste his time with something that wasn’t important. 

Dorian led them to Josephine’s office, where Maxwell was waiting with the ambassador. Cullen took in the room at a glance as Dorian closed the door behind him. Just the four of them. Perfect. The minute the lock clicked closed, Cullen whirled and drove his fist straight into Dorian’s gut as hard as he could. The mage had not been expecting it, and collapsed to the ground with a _ deeply _ satisfying wheezing noise.

“Cullen!” Maxwell exclaimed. He and Josephine wore twin expressions of shock.

“Dorian knows what he did to deserve that,” Cullen said blandly, stomping past him and taking a seat by one of the cozy armchairs near the fireplace.

Maxwell rushed past him to Dorian’s side. “Are you all right?!”

To his credit, Dorian just groaned, “I probably did earn that, he’s correct.”

While Maxwell fussed over Dorian (typical), Josephine leaned in to ask Cullen, “Are you well?”

He offered a small, tired smile. “Everything is insane, but no more so than usual.”

That made her smile in kind, and she patted him on the shoulder. 

“If we’re done punching people, there’s actually some important things to discuss.” Maxwell stood in front of the fireplace, hands on his hips, in full scolding mode. 

Dorian dropped heavily into the other free armchair. “I’m wounded, Max. I don’t know that I will live through the meeting.”

“Perhaps I can do the kind thing and snap your neck to put you out of your misery,” Cullen responded, not bothering to look over at Dorian.

“Enough of all that!” Josephine joined Maxwell in front of the fireplace, and Cullen knew he owed her his attention. “As you can imagine, the news of your union has caused a stir. We’ve been inundated with questions, requests, six different challenges to a duel, and-” she glanced at her writing board, “four demands to behead Dorian, two demands to behead Cullen.”

“Summerday is in three weeks,” Maxwell continued. “I think, and Josie agrees, that this would be the perfect time to make a public statement, to reassure people that things are continuing as normal. So Skyhold is hosting a celebration.” He aimed that familiar, deliberately annoying smirk at Cullen. “You two will be the main attraction.”


	17. Chapter 17

Planning a party was familiar ground, at least in the sense that Cullen was used to listening to other people discuss the finer details while he stared off into space. Which colors were in season? Which hors d'oeuvres were trendy in Val Royeaux? Which hats were in fashion?

Cullen had no idea, no interest in knowing, and was more than happy to allow the professionals to handle the details. The only hitch in the plan came towards the end, as Josephine said, “We will also have the tailors create something new for you both. Dorian, are there any color preferences?”

“What?” Cullen said, letting himself pay more attention to the conversation. “Wait, you’ve already made those formal outfits for the Orlesian peace talks at the Winter Palace, whenever those happen. Can’t I wear that?”

Dorian tsked. “My dear Commander, among civilized people, it’s considered polite to look halfway presentable at your own party. That includes going through the effort of putting on new clothes.”

“It’s a waste of time and resources, I can wear my formal armor-”

“You are going to be one of the focal points of this gathering,” Dorian pointed out. “Not as much of one as me, but still. A united front is needed, and that means dressing you decently for once.”

“I dress perfectly-”

“Plus, that contract you signed means I can pick out all of your outfits, should I desire.” Dorian was smirking, the bastard.

Cullen glanced at Josephine, who sighed and said, “It  _ does _ give him broad discretion when it comes to your clothing for formal gatherings.”

“And you represent me,” Dorian added, his smirk only growing. “You’ll need to be resplendent.”

Cullen very much did not want to find out what ‘resplendent’ would look like on him. He’d seen Orlesian outfits composed of nothing but tulle, diamonds, and enchanted Crystal Grace flowers too often to trust the fashion sense of any noble.

“Can the tailors draw up some sketches?” Maxwell interrupted. “Like they did for me when we were deciding on formalwear.” He turned to Cullen. “I can never picture any of the clothes in my head, so having it on paper is a little more manageable.”

That  _ did _ sound better than going into this blind and outmatched. Cullen shot Maxwell a grateful smile. “Yes, that would be preferable.”

“Wonderful!” Josephine made several notes on her writing board. “I’ll inform the tailors at once. They’ve been toying with all sorts of new designs, so they’ll be very excited to try them out.”

Ah, Cullen did so love being a test subject.

Despite his dread of whatever nonsense the next day would bring, sleep came quickly that night. But when Cullen stirred, opening his eyes in Dorian’s dream construct, he had the uneasy sense that something was different. Sleepily, he sat up, peering behind him. The entire back wall of the sunroom was gone, melting unevenly into...into the stone of the Gallows. His heartbeat picking up for reasons he didn’t care to examine, Cullen stepped from the bed. He wrapped one of the furs around his shoulders, digging his fingers into the rich auburn pelt.

He wasn’t sure how he knew that the stone was from the courtyard of the Gallows, besides that this was the Fade, where bitter memory became a living thing once more. At the terminus point where the tile mosaic floor melted into light grey stone, Cullen knelt to take a closer look at it. After a cautious moment, he reached out to touch it. Yes, this was the fine-grained stone from Kirkwall’s quarries, the stone that had brought the Tevinter Imperium to the shores of the Free Marches centuries before Andraste was ever born. Cullen was no mason and he could not give details on what forces had shaped the rock and made it strong or valuable, but he would recognize this stone anywhere.

_ Where was Dorian? _

The thought made him stand sharply, tightening the fur around his shoulders. It was an irrational fear (and he hesitated to call it fear), but the idea of Dorian wandering around the Gallows, stumbling through dangerous memories...Maker, what if he came upon Cullen’s memories of Meredith? She would try to harm him, there was no question of that.

Swallowing, Cullen strode forward, the stone bare and rough beneath his feet. When he opened the door at the end of the room, he stepped into a frozen moment of time. 

Rows upon rows of Templars stood at attention in neat and orderly lines. They did not move, their armor did not rise and fall with their breath. With their helmets on, the unnatural stillness made them seem like statues wrought from metal and cloth. On the raised landing of the steps, Meredith stood like a bright, sharp sentinel. Every inch of her armor gleamed, and her expression was as stern as ever. Seeing her, healthy and whole rather than...rather than what she had become, it made Cullen’s chest go tight. 

Dorian wandered the rows, looking for all the world like a man touring a garden full of interesting statuary. He didn’t seem remotely cowed to be standing in the most notorious Circle in southern Thedas, staring up at Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard.

But then, Cullen doubted that Dorian would have been cowed even if it had all been real.

“What is this?” Cullen called out, from the back of the rows.

Dorian turned, visibly surprised to see him. “Hello, I thought you’d be napping like some great cat. As for what this is--” he waved a hand, “-you tell me. It’s your dream.”

They met in the center of the rows of Templars, surrounded on all sides by gleaming metal. “My dream?”

Dorian nodded. “When I pull you into this construct, it’s not like you cease to exist in the Fade. Your dreams form on the edges of the construct, the parts I’m not paying attention to. I had become used to ignoring that ghastly tower, but this was the first time something new had taken shape. I was curious.”

“This is Kirkwall,” Cullen said, staring up at the vast walls of the courtyard. “This is the Gallows.” 

“That would make sense.” Dorian nodded. “I was surprised by how detailed it was, but you were here for over a decade, weren’t you?”

Cullen nodded. “This looks like the morning roster. It never really changed.” Cautiously, he reached out to touch the armor of the Templar nearest to him. The metal was solid, perfectly realistic, and the upraised embossings were slightly smoother than the surrounding armor. It was just like the plate he had put on every day, every detail fixed in his memory.

“Fascinating!” Dorian was crowding him suddenly, staring down at his hand with interest. “When I try to touch any of them, look-”

Dorian reached out to another Templar and touched their shoulder. The metal  _ sank _ , bending and warping like thin clay being pressed. With a grimace, the mage withdrew his hand. “Like touching wet dough.”

“Hmm.” Cullen chewed his lower lip. “Maybe because you don’t know what the armor should feel like, so your mind can’t fill in the details?” 

Curious, he reached out and touched the other Templar. Solid metal and leather beneath his hand, just as he expected. “Here, try it when I’m also touching him.”

Dorian laid his hand on the Templar’s arm and positively beamed as his hand hit metal. “Well, look at that. Oh, I am going to get an entire  _ thesis _ out of just this! Those hacks in the Perivantium Circle and their nonsense about ‘fixed points in the metaphysical world’ won’t know what hit them.”

He sounded gleeful, like a child staring at a tray of sweets. Cullen couldn’t help but smile. Dorian was considerably less sinister like this, laughing and poking the Templar like he was pestering an older sibling. He kept up his poking until he realized Cullen was looking at him, and then pulled back to straighten his robes. 

“Ahem. This is all very interesting.” He looked around him, the familiar smirk coming back as a thought occurred. “You must have been quite adorable in this armor.”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “Yes, that was the Order’s chief concern when designing armor: what will make the Templars adorable?”

“Job well done, then. Since you’re running around half-naked, perhaps you’d like to try on the old-”

“No!” Cullen snapped, the word bursting from him.

Dorian had raised his hand to snap his fingers, but paused, cocking his head curiously. “You’d prefer to dress like a chilly harem boy, then?”

“I don’t wear the Templar armor any more,” Cullen explained, rubbing the back of his neck. It was embarrassing how strong an emotion the idea provoked. “I left the Order. I would prefer to avoid reminders.”

Thankfully, Dorian just shrugged and lowered his hand. “Suit yourself. I do enjoy ogling you.”

Cullen just shook his head and stepped out of the rows of Templars, walking to the front to stare up at Meredith. Her skin just had the normal pink flush of life, rather than the strange red tint that her cheeks had carried in those few final weeks. Her eyes were clear and icy blue, rather than bloodshot. This really was a memory, pulled from the years before she had ever come in contact with the red lyrium idol.

“Quite a striking woman,” Dorian observed, coming to stand at Cullen’s shoulder. “Though I can’t say she seems very friendly.”

“This is Knight-Commander Meredith,” Cullen said, not looking away from her. “When people ask you about me at this party, she’ll come up.”

“Hmm, she doesn’t look insane.”

“She wasn’t, not until the end.” The Meredith in his memories stood strong and unyielding. She did not howl like a wounded animal or hunch herself over like a ghoul. “Before that, she was the greatest Knight-Commander Kirkwall had ever known.”

Dorian looked at him askance. “The greatest?”

Cullen shrugged, still unable to look away. There was a tight, unpleasant feeling in his chest. “Dragons are great. Hurricanes are great. The darkspawn army during a Blight is great. And terrible. And very good at destroying everything in its path. She was the same.”

“That’s a bit more poetic than you usually allow.”

“I’ve had a long time to think about Meredith.” 

The statue, twisted and agonized, had fused to the cobblestones of the Gallows. It was impossible to remove without getting close to it, and getting close…

‘ _ Weareherewehavewaitedwehaveslept, come to us Cullen, in our arms lies eternity.’ _

They’d sealed off the entire courtyard, and then the entire wing. But Cullen had still been able to see the Maker-cursed thing. When he dreamed of it, he was uncomfortably unsure whether it was a nightmare or a creeping madness.

“You cared about her.” Dorian’s voice was softer than usual.

“She was my mentor. She made me feel safe, and valued, and gave me a purpose.” Jaw clenched, he finally tore his gaze away. “And I think she’d have killed every person in Kirkwall, starting with the mages we were meant to protect.”

He didn’t expect Dorian’s hand on his shoulder, the touch gentle. Dorian’s voice was equally gentle when he said, “Our mentors are people too, Cullen. I know firsthand that they can disappoint us.”

Cullen shook his head. “Alexius was a good man, though, from what you and all our records say. He was a good person who made bad choices. Meredith...I don’t know how to sort out what might have been good from what she became. She was kind to me; was that because she had a softer side, or because I was an easy mark? I don’t  _ know, _ and I never will.”

Dorian had nothing to say in response to that, because what was there to say? The two of them looked quietly at Meredith for another moment, and then Dorian squeezed his shoulder. “Thank you for telling me all of that.”

Cullen glared at the mage suspiciously.

With an exasperated sound, Dorian added, “I’m not being sarcastic! Andraste’s pyre, I am capable of sincerity sometimes.”

Still unsure, Cullen nodded. “Ah. Well. It’s...it’s important to know, since Kirkwall will come up. But we shouldn’t linger here.”

Seeing Meredith and an entire squadron of Templars completely motionless was beginning to remind him far too much of that red lyrium statue.

“Important sleep to catch up on?” But Dorian was already falling into step next to him, heading back towards the sunroom. For once he wasn’t pressing, and Cullen was grateful.

“At least a decade’s worth.”

\---

The next day was lovely, bright and sunny and filled with the sound of laughter and chirping birds. Cullen scowled at all of it. This was the Maker mocking him, clearly. All of those happy people going about their lives weren’t about to be dressed up like a child’s doll.

“What’s that charming word they use in the south, ‘grumpy’?” Dorian laughed when he walked into Cullen’s office and caught sight of his expression.

“This is a waste of time!” Cullen said, in a tone that was dignified, reasonable, and not at all grumpy.

“I have strict orders to pry you away from this desk.” Dorian’s grin stretched from ear to ear. “Now come along. I’m picturing you in plush velvet and sea silk, in rose tones.”

“I’m picturing shoving you off the battlements,” Cullen muttered. With a final, hangdog look at his stack of supply line summaries, he rose from his desk.

The tailors occupied a workshop in the northern wing of the castle, near the gardens. They were as efficient and steady as dwarven clocks, producing uniforms and insignia at a frankly astonishing rate. Cullen knew how to sew, but only enough to mend a small tear or reattach a button. The things their tailors could produce defied belief.

In many ways, that was what worried him. He had seen visiting nobles wearing outfits that defied gravity and good taste.

Their head tailor was an Orlesian man named Damond, and Cullen had come to associate his thick accent with having to stand very still to avoid being poked with a pin. He was not surprised to see Damond waiting for him in the workroom. Vivienne and Leliana’s presence, though, was unexpected.

“What are you two doing here?” Cullen asked, hands on his hips.

“Damond and I are old friends,” Vivienne said, almost managing not to look amused. “I thought I might sit in and offer my advice, as someone from the heart of Val Royeaux’s fashion world.”

“And I wouldn’t miss this for anything.” Leliana did not bother to hide her grin.

“You’re supposed to be my friend,” Cullen groused.

“This wouldn’t be nearly as fun if you weren’t my friend.”

Maker preserve him. He was beset on all sides. Scowling, Cullen took a seat at the large, round table that was covered in sketches of clothing. “Let’s just get this over with.”

It was precisely as bad as he’d feared. In short order, he had to forcefully refuse: a neckline that plunged to his navel, a collar that flared out larger than his head, heels that would make him a foot and a half taller, a corset, live butterflies, and a cape covered in four layers of cloth-of-gold and sapphires. Some of the suggestions were clearly just there to make him suffer, but Dorian had argued very hard for the lowcut tunic, and Vivienne was alarmingly serious about the cape. Leliana was no help at all, offering to collect feathers from her ravens in order to create ‘a truly memorable hat’ for him.

When Cullen didn’t have an active protest, everyone mostly talked over him. Style lines, hems, gussets, passementarie, a whirl of terms and fabrics that he made his head ache. Why had they even needed him at all? He looked up and saw that Vivienne was watching him, her head tilted slightly to the side.

“Allow me to make an observation,” she said, interrupting a conversation between Dorian and Damond about how the skin from some kind of large lizard called a ‘crocodile’ was all the rage in Minrathous.

“Yes, Madame?”

“We can create finery that will impress nobles from every corner of Thedas,” Vivienne mused, “but our commander is no noble. Nor is he Antivan, or Orlesian, or Tevinter. No amount of silk and exquisite design will disguise that he is a Fereldan commoner.”

The room was silent for a beat. Raising an eyebrow, Cullen said, “I’ve never claimed to be anything else, and I’ve no desire to impersonate a noble.”

“Precisely.” Vivienne leaned forward, steepling her well-manicured fingers. “Dorian, dear, no amount of drapery will make the Commander a traditional Tevinter consort.”

“Don’t I know it,” Dorian grumbled. “But what is your point?”

“Ah, I think I see your plan, Vivienne,” Leliana said, giving Cullen a considering look. “Rather than dress Cullen as something he isn’t-”

“-his attire should reflect what he is,” Vivienne finished. “Fereldan fashion may not be the height of sophistication, but I’ve no doubt Damond can create something exquisite that will still suit your tastes, Cullen.”

Damond was nodding rapidly, grabbing an existing sketch and a quill and beginning to scribble. “Ah, yes, yes! Decorative armor never truly goes out of fashion, and there have been several new trends in embossing and gilding that can make it clear we are still on the pulse of sophistication. Commander, which complements your skin tone better: wolf or fox fur?”

“Erm, I-I don’t-”

“Never mind, never mind, we can sample it. Oh! I know just the merchant who might have something perfect!”

Dorian leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. His expression was skeptical, and that alone made Cullen warm up to Vivienne’s plan. “Hold on a moment, he’s  _ my _ consort and this little event is meant to include the both of us. I’m certainly not going to dress like a Fereldan.”

“Furs, leather, a similar color scheme, yes, yes, I can see it now.” Damond continued to scribble, lost in some sort of creative rapture. “Oh yes, this will be perfect!”

In the end, the meeting concluded with Dorian mollified, Vivienne and Leliana pleased, and Damond deep in thought. Cullen still had no bloody idea what he was wearing, and he escaped to the training field with a physical sense of relief. 

No wonder nearly every noble seemed half mad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter this time, but hopefully an entertaining one. Stay healthy, everyone!


	18. Chapter 18

Dorian would have never admitted it to anyone but Josephine (and possibly Vivienne in the rare moments that they were cordial), but there was something truly enjoyable about planning a party again. Parties were a nice break from the vicious tedium of the Magisterium, or his Skyhold routine of research and wandering around incinterating bandits with Trevelyan. It was refreshing to worry about something more finite and manageable than the end of the world.

It was also keeping him nicely distracted from the crushing weight of his own feelings. Having an excuse to cancel the daily sessions with Cullen helped Dorian maintain a much-needed distance. With any luck, he could get through this party without ever showing a hint of vulnerable underbelly to his ‘consort.’ If he played his cards just right, he could hold Cullen at arm’s length for the rest of their lives.

That plan lasted until he walked into Cullen’s office and stared up at the ceiling. “You’ll need to stay somewhere else for a few days. The mason tells me the office will be useable, but obviously not the bedroom.”

Cullen stared at him blankly, surrounded by stacks of papers like a badger in its den. “What?”

“Your quarters,” Dorian said distractedly. “There’s a hole in the roof that I can see the sky through. Maker, an acrobatic assassin could probably crawl through it. I have no idea why you’ve been putting this off, I assume some instinct to self-sacrifice or other nonsense, but-”

“Wait,  _ what? _ ” Cullen stood from his desk. “My quarters are perfectly serviceable, there’s no need to-”

Dorian crossed his arms. “Rutherford. You might enjoy sleeping in the rain like a cow, but if high society is coming to gawk at us, the first question they’ll ask is ‘Dorian, why is there a hole in Cullen’s roof’?”

“It’s not any of their business!” Cullen snapped _ . _ He looked  _ angry, _ not simply flustered. “It’s not any of your business either!”

Andraste’s flaming pyre, Dorian did not want to deal with Cullen’s hang-ups. It had been enough of a struggle to force him to the meeting with the tailor. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dorian sighed, “My dear commander, I would be perfectly happy to let you live in a dilapidated, crumbling deathtrap if that’s what you want. More space for me, certainly. But the entire world will be asking why my consort is-”

“Fine!” Cullen was moving suddenly, pulling on his gloves and buckling his sword to his belt with quick, angry motions. “Fine, you may as well! Since my opinion on the place where I live doesn’t matter at all, just do whatever you want and I’ll sleep in the stables above Blackwall!”

Then he physically shoved past Dorian, tromping down the stone stairs to the courtyard below.

Flabbergasted, Dorian stared after him. For all that Cullen was snappish and ill-tempered, he wasn’t the type to have outbursts over petty annoyances. Simmering and snide comments, certainly, but throwing a tantrum over a hole in his roof?

Frankly, Dorian didn’t have time to deal with any of it. If they were going to make this farce believable, they needed to move quickly. Dorian was hardly in the mood to coax Cullen through whatever new breakdown he was hurtling towards, not when he was barely staving off his own breakdown. Instead, he tracked down Gatsi, Skyhold’s head mason, and got the work order underway. At least he wouldn’t need to explain to 300 simpering nobles why his consort slept exposed to the elements like a dog. Now he just needed to tackle every other issue on the list.

But Cullen’s foul mood didn’t fade as the day went on, and by evening, half the castle was speculating on it. And they had the nerve to give Dorian dirty looks, as if he’d done something wrong. ‘He practically sleeps in the rain!’, Dorian wanted to shout. It was absurd. True to his threats, Cullen had dragged a bedroll to the stables to sleep, and that was  _ still _ probably better for him than his current quarters.

When morning dawned and Cullen was still snarling out orders like a furious, cornered cat, Dorian despaired. He’d bound himself to some kind of madman, clearly. The sheer ridiculousness of it all left him distracted, and no amount of switching activities helped him focus. Lunch found Dorian sitting at the small, discretely located table that he had started to think of as his own. It was one of many such niches in Skyhold, and it gave him a good view of the courtyard and merchant’s stalls. On sunny days like this one, it was a good spot for reading when he wanted to get out of the library. That was why he was there. To read. The fact that the table also afforded him a view of the training yard where Cullen was currently battering his recruits with a shield was simply a coincidence. 

“Trouble in paradise?”

The Iron Bull’s voice was a viscerally pleasing rumble, and it kindled a fire low in Dorian’s hips that he tried very hard to ignore. It wouldn’t do to let the ox-man think he had an advantage. The Bull had enough advantages already, being a preternaturally strong giant who never wore a shirt and had muscles that could move the heavens-

_ Ahem. _

“I thought that even under the Qun, it was considered rude to interrupt someone who was clearly busy,” Dorian said crisply, offering an entirely insincere smile.

Iron Bull just grinned and leaned against the wall next to Dorian. His arms were crossed, his posture open. To all appearances, they were having a friendly chat. “Just a little worried about you, is all.”

“Oh?” 

“Given that you’ve been on that same page for about 15 minutes now.”

_ “Kaffas.” _ Dorian slammed the book closed. “Go away. I’m not in the mood for a round of threats disguised as banter, Qunari.”

Iron Bull chuckled. “Aw, it’s ‘Qunari’ today? Not even ‘giant lummox?’ Are we in a fight, Dorian?”

“Yes, now leave.”

“What’d you do to Cullen? Last time he was stomping around like this, it was because Corypheus dropped a dragon on us.” Bull was making no moves to leave, because of course not.

“I haven’t done anything to Cullen, not that it’s any of your business at all,” Dorian snapped. 

“Uh-huh. You know every spy, bard, and intelligence agent worth their salt is going to be coming to this party to figure out what the fuck is going on, right?”

“And here I thought you’d already pissed on the castle to mark it as yours.”

“Efficiency of the Qun, magister.” Iron Bull grinned toothily. “I brought all the spy networks to me, and all I have to do to see them in action is put on pants. Maybe not even that, depending on the kind of action.”

“Would you kindly fuck off?” Dorian gestured to the yard below them. “Go bother literally anyone else.”

“Seriously, what’s got Cullen in a snit?” Bull asked. “Because I’m on Team Inquisition, and you two are the weakest links in our story. Call it professional concern. You couldn’t fool a twelve-year-old right now.”

“Is that so?” Dorian drawled. He did enjoy sharpening his claws on this brute, he had to admit. “Is that the story you tell Maxwell? ‘We’re all on Team Inquisition.’ We both know the only thing a Qunari is loyal to is the Qun. You’d let everyone in this castle burn alive if one of your priestesses said the word.”

The thing about verbally sparring with Bull was that nothing seemed to hit him. Every blow slid off his massive shoulders, every cutting remark was answered with a grin. It was  _ fun. _ Or it would have been, if Dorian had some way to know which jabs were witty repartee and which were Bull’s preparation for an inevitable backstab.

A chuckle, low as thunder rumbling. “Loyalty to the Qun is still loyalty to something. We both know a blood mage is only loyal to themselves. And whichever demon makes them the best offer, of course.”

Dorian batted his eyelashes up at Bull. “Funny you should mention it, several have been making  _ such _ enticing offers if I’ll help them wear you like a big gray suit of armor.”

Iron Bull’s hand dropped onto his shoulder suddenly. It could easily be mistaken for a friendly gesture. His enormous fingers formed a loose collar around Dorian’s throat, his thumb resting on the apple of his throat. 

The Bull’s smile was sharp and hungry. “Careful making jokes like that, Dorian. Someone might get jumpy, thinking you were serious.” 

His hand was a tangible weight, the effortless power behind it making Dorian’s knees weak. But he was no green boy any longer. The Magisterium had hardened him into a weapon. He met Bull’s hungry smile with one of his own and responded, “Not to worry. I could still boil someone’s blood in their veins before they could manage to snap my neck. So I’m in no danger at all.”

They locked eyes for a long moment. Neither blinked. 

Then Bull laughed, the sound booming out of him, and his expression was pure merriment. He squeezed Dorian’s shoulder, but the gesture was friendly. “Not even a jump in your pulse. I’ll give you this, Magister, you’ve got a set of big brass ones.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Dorian responded, relaxing back slightly as the tension vanished. He had apparently passed some sort of test.

Bull resumed his lean against the wall, his posture once again relaxed. “You know, I think you’ll be able to pull this off. You’re good at it, the pretending. Cullen’s still a lost cause.”

Dorian scowled. “I’ve been doing everything I can to make him comfortable, I don’t know what you’re here nagging me about.”

“No, you’ve gotten him comfortable being touched,” Bull corrected. He raised an eyebrow. “Dunno what you’ve been doing to him, but it’d make a tamassran proud. He still acts like he wants to punch you in the mouth, though, and everyone will be able to tell.”

“Your limited imagination couldn’t fathom the things I’ve done to him,” Dorian smirked. It would not add to his sinister persona to admit that all he’d done was give Cullen backrubs and call him a good boy.

“Uh-huh.” Bull sounded insultingly skeptical. “My point is: I’m not sure it’ll help if he comes off like a hostage who just happens to like sitting in your lap. Might actually make it worse.”

“Yes, yes, your concerns are duly noted.” Dorian waved a hand dismissively. “I have this completely under control. Shoo.” 

Iron Bull simply gave him a doubtful, patronizing look.

“Shoo!” Dorian threw in a hand motion to go with it.

“Don’t fuck this up, Dorian.” Bull tapped his eyepatch. “The world is watching.” 

Then he finally left, like a mountain with incredible biceps ambling away to the tavern. 

Dorian leaned back in his chair, smoothing out his moustache. Fucking Qunari. Just because he was correct, that didn’t mean the advice didn’t rankle. 

Keeping Cullen at arm’s length wasn’t going to work if the commander was a snarling ball of outrage. Dorian didn’t even know  _ why _ having the hole in his ceiling fixed was setting him off. He could make guesses, but that didn’t change the fact that the damned hole needed to be repaired. If Dorian was stumbling over tripwires like this before the high-ranking nobles had even begun to arrive, that really did not bode well for the future.

He would need to--

_ Ugh. _

He would need to have a sincere conversation.

**\---**

“Wake up.”

Cullen’s eyes blinked open, and he made a soft, confused sound that was far cuter than it had any right to be. The air inside Cullen’s sunroom was warm and fragrant, and Dorian felt a bit sleepy just being in there. The Fade was a realm of feelings, and Cullen had spent weeks resting in this one space, napping contently. The aura of peace and rest had begun to sink in and cling, like the scent of incense in a Chantry.

“Sorry to disrupt your beauty sleep,” Dorian said. He sat on the side of the bed, one hand resting on the curve of Cullen’s shoulder. “I wanted to talk.”

Dorian could see the exact moment when Cullen remembered he was angry. His brow furrowed, his mouth curving into a scowl. Cullen was no mage and he was unable to shape the Fade consciously, but Dorian could feel his irritation rattling through the world around them, like a discordant note hanging in the air.

“Is it not enough that you’ve thrown me out of my own quarters?” Cullen growled, sitting up and shaking Dorian’s hand off of him. “You can’t even give me a moment’s peace to sleep?”

Dorian didn’t rise to the bait. “Apparently not. Can we speak? I have something to show you.”

“No. Leave me alone.”

“Please?”

The fact that  _ this _ was what made Cullen pause his sulking and agree just reinforced that Dorian’s plan was a good one. He led Cullen down one of the many hallways that branched off from the sunroom, occasionally glancing back to get a nice eyeful of him. Originally, he’d dressed Cullen in whisper-thin silk trousers and nothing else as a joke. But after seeing the way the fabric clung lovingly to the curve of his ass and the bulge of his cock...well, Dorian certainly wasn’t jumping to offer him other sleepwear. 

They came to an open doorway, the room beyond shrouded completely in darkness. Dorian told Cullen to wait there and then walked further into his little project. He  _ could _ have simply opened a door to show Cullen the room, but he’d always loved a dramatic reveal. Once he was in the center of the room, he allowed light to flood the space.

It had been a few years since Dorian had visited the Pavilion of the Stars in the physical world, and some of the details were probably wrong. But he’d been sure that he could create a passable imitation. Based on Cullen’s look of open-mouthed shock, he had succeeded.

The floor and columns of the vast octagonal room were made of exquisite marble, some obscenely expensive and rare variety that came in rich shades of blue and purple. The color alone would have been enough to invoke the night sky, deep and dark, but glittering fragments of gold and diamond embedded in the marble made the entire room sparkle. The fragments were arranged in very deliberate patterns, mirroring the constellations in the sky with mathematical precision. Far above them, an unbelievably clear glass dome stood in place of a roof, allowing an unhindered view of the sky. It was beautiful during sunrises and sunsets, but it was at night when the pavilion was truly perfect. Dorian had gone through extra trouble to make the night sky look convincingly real, since the eerie light of the Fade would not be nearly as pretty.

The combined effect made it seem as if visitors were standing among a field of stars, like the sky and all the constellations were close enough to touch.

“I…” Cullen took a hesitant step into the room, his eyes wide.

“This is a replica of the Pavilion of Stars in Minrathous,” Dorian explained, smiling at Cullen’s obvious wonder. “It’s considered a cultural treasure, built during the Black Age and maintained ever since. Families fight duels to have weddings in it.”

“It’s so beautiful.” Cullen walked further in, craning his neck to look up at the glass dome above them. “What  _ is _ this?”

“It was built by Magister Sofia Hilaron.” He watched Cullen. “As a gift for her beloved consort, Kallon.”

For the first time since he’d walked into the room, Cullen tore his gaze away from the spectacle to focus on Dorian.

“Kallon was a Laetan whose passion was studying the movements of the stars. Magister Sofia’s family made their fortune from their quarries. She described the Pavillion of the Stars as a physical representation of their love, a combination of what made them who they are.” Dorian traced the pattern of the constellation Visus, embedded in a column in lines of shining gold. “It was also sinfully expensive and gave her bragging rights for the rest of time, obviously.”

“Why are you showing me this?” Cullen’s tone was guarded but curious, and he took a step towards Dorian.

Considering his words carefully, Dorian said, “When the nobles of Orlais or my homeland think of consorts and their patrons, this is the kind of thing they imagine. This is the level of...devotion or spectacle, or whatever you’d like to call it. Proof of status and power and adoration.” He met Cullen’s eyes. “I don’t know why you’re as attached to the hole in your roof as you are, and I suppose I should have asked. But fixing it was not meant to be some power play or show of dominance.”

Cullen's jaw worked furiously for several seconds, and then he looked away with a sigh. Rubbing the back of his neck, he murmured, “I’m claustrophobic.”

“...what?”

Cheeks burning red, Cullen continued, “Enclosed, airless spaces--all my muscles lock up and I feel like I’m about to vomit. Most of the time, I’m fine with being indoors, but sleeping was already difficult for me, and so being able to feel the air…” With his free hand, he gestured irritably to the vista around them. “It helped.”

Dorian opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again to ask, “Why in the Maker’s sacred testes did you not simply ask them to build you a large window?”

“We’re at war for the fate of the world!” Cullen snapped, still blushing. “I’m not going to ask anyone to waste funds on window glass!”

It was the stupidest thing Dorian had ever heard, and he was instantly calculating how big of a window could be cut into Cullen’s tower. “You’re absolutely ridiculous, all of this because you can’t just use your words-”

“Be quiet!” Cullen sulked, crossing his arms and scowling. “It’s not as if you tell me anything either!”

“Well you’re getting a bloody window, and it’s going to be beautiful, and you will  _ love it!” _ Dorian nearly shouted.

“Fine!”

_ “Fine!” _

It was like pulling teeth. Out of a dragon. A dragon that was still awake.

The prospect of a fight suddenly deflating like a sail with no wind, the two of them were left in irritated, foot-shuffling silence. Surprisingly, Cullen was the one to break it.

“So...did you do all this just to apologize for fixing my roof without asking me?”

“Well, that and as a memory exercise. Recreating buildings from scratch is just another of my many talents, it turns out.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow.

“Fine, yes, an apology or explanation, call it what you like.” Dorian sighed. “And I had a proposal. I don’t enjoy making myself vulnerable any more than you do, but for this farce to be successful, we will need to be...honest with each other, to some extent. Work as a team. So I thought it might help to say it out loud: I promise not to use your weaknesses against you, if you can promise the same.”

Cullen just studied him with that same expression he wore when staring at the War Table. “It’s an easy thing for you to promise, when you have me at a disadvantage.”

Dorian rolled his eyes at the paranoia. “Well, Rutherford, I’m fresh out of blood magic rituals that will let you control my orgasms, so I’m not sure what you’d like me to do.”

“You promise honesty?” Cullen asked, tilting his head.

“Yes.”

“Prove it.”

_ “Fasta v-” _

“Why did you turn to blood magic?”

The question, asked flatly and bluntly, caused a visible tremor in the world around them. The walls shook, the floor cracked slightly, and the stars above them began to blur as Dorian briefly lost his control under a surge of emotion. Cullen took it all in, watchful. 

“That’s not-” Dorian swallowed hard enough that he could feel his throat bob. “I can’t tell you that.”

“As I thought,” Cullen sneered.

Dorian took a moment to steady himself and regain control of the Fade. His voice was still unforgivably choked with emotion when he said, “It’s not a happy memory.”

“And watching you paw through my worst memories has just been wonderful.”

“Shut up!” The world rocked around them again, and Dorian gritted his teeth. This line of questioning needed to stop. While the temptation to  _ force _ Cullen to shut up was strong and instinctive, it wouldn’t help matters. His voice was strained as he said, “I did not ask you for details. I pieced together what I could and then I  _ let it be _ . I didn’t ask how they tortured you, or what else they did to you, or anything else, because it’s clear that even thinking about it upsets you!”

Cullen tensed, like he was preparing to fight. Dorian was genuinely not sure he could keep a grip on the Fade around them if that happened, and he nearly told Cullen as much. But rather than shouting, Cullen asked, “Whatever made you turn to blood magic, you feel as strongly about it as I feel about...what happened to me?”

Those weren’t the words Dorian would have used, and yet-

_ ‘Father, Papa, please, oh Maker, what are you doing, stop it, STOP!’ Fingers in his mind, the sense of violation and betrayal so strong that he couldn’t even breathe- _

“Yes.”

Nodding slightly, Cullen looked away. “All right. I don’t like that answer, but all right.”

“If there is some other aspect of my sordid past you’d like to ask about, may I suggest we do it when we  _ aren’t _ standing in a mental construct that I could lose control of at any moment?” Dorian added, his teeth gritted.

“Fine.” He gave Dorian a sideways glance. “The tailors will apparently have my ‘outfit’ ready by tomorrow. So we can both be miserable.”

“Ah, true partnership.” But it was already easier to control the Fade, the walls around them solid and sturdy once again as Dorian brought his will to bear.

As they walked back to the sunroom, Cullen asked in a very casual voice, “Is it easy for you to maintain a room, once you’ve created it in the Fade?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, generally. I doubt I could create an entire city, but a handful of rooms are easy enough.”

Cullen was resolutely not looking at him as he said, “The Pavilion of Stars was a very impressive creation. You could keep it, if it’s not much trouble.”

Dorian couldn’t help but smirk. “I could let it stand as a monument to my greatness.”

“You’re too kind.” Cullen’s tone was dry and unimpressed, but he wore a small smile nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even in an AU, Dorian is always horny on main for Iron Bull.


	19. Chapter 19

“Oh.”

There had been a few occasions in Cullen’s life when he had not recognized the person in the mirror. They had all been negative. He knew what he looked like when he was gaunt and starved, hollow-eyed and shuddering. He was painfully familiar with the feral, tortured creature that had crawled out of Kinloch, and he was increasingly used to seeing himself wracked with withdrawals, his skin waxy and corpse-pale.

The man staring back at him was the utter opposite of all that. There was color in his cheeks, life in his eyes, a healthy layer of fat keeping his bones from jutting. And the clothing…

It was all shades of red, gold, and black, the design relatively simple but the material and quality shockingly fine. The black leather trousers were the simplest aspect, but even those were embroidered with shining gold thread in an intricate diamond pattern along the outer leg. A long, scarlet tunic reached to mid-thigh, with the same golden diamond pattern covering it. The high neck leant it a familiar, military air that comforted Cullen more than he was expecting. The edges of the tunic were further embroidered with stylized mabari; he recognized the homage to traditional Ferelden art, the kind decorating the walls of hundreds of little villages throughout his homeland. Over it all was a deep burgundy cape designed to be worn off one shoulder, lined and edged in jet black wolf fur.

It was exquisite. It was the most expensive thing that he had ever worn. He looked like some kind of noble, and he was immediately concerned that he was going to get blood and sweat all over it.

“Commander?” The voice of Damond, the head tailor, snapped him out of his reverie. 

“I--yes, sorry,” Cullen stuttered. “It’s lovely, Damond. You’ve done m-marvelous work.”

Dorian’s voice piped up. “Well, don’t keep us in suspense, man!”

Cautiously, Cullen stepped out from behind the massive, rotating tailor’s mirror. Damond and Dorian were the only ones present, to Cullen’s great relief. Dorian’s jaw dropped when he saw Cullen, and for the first time since Cullen had known him, he was speechless.

“Ah, wonderful!” Damond trilled, stepping forward to tug at the shoulders. “Oh, Commander, it looks excellent. I still have some trimming to do and I see a few places I need to make little adjustments before I can call it finished, but I wanted to let you try it on ahead of time.”

“I appreciate it,” Cullen responded, his nerves finally abating enough to let him smile. “This is beautiful, messere. I know very little about fashion, obviously, but even I can see it’s remarkable.”

“You are too kind, Commander!” Damond chattered about seams, the terminology immediately going over Cullen’s head. Instead, he looked at Dorian, who was motionless with an awestruck expression on his face and ravenous hunger in his eyes. 

The last time Dorian had looked at him like that, they’d fucked on a table. 

“Lord Pavus, have you any suggestions?” Damond asked, apparently unaware that he was in danger of witnessing something very graphic.

“I--” Dorian had to clear his throat. “None whatsoever. You’ve surpassed yourself.”

“Good, good, your own robes are underway.” Damond tugged at a few more places on the outfit, jotting down several notes. “I did not want to get too deep into the design without your approval. Unless there are any suggestions, I will return to my workshop?”

Dorian nodded, his voice perfectly even. “Yes, of course. As I said, you’ve surpassed yourself.”

Damond gave a deep bow and pushed forward the clothier’s mannequin that Cullen’s outfit had been draped on. The door clicked closed behind him. Dorian and Cullen were still, eyes locked.

There was a long beat of silence.

When they lunged for each other, bodies slamming together, it was with all the intensity of soldiers at war.

“Careful, don’t tear anything!” Cullen growled, which was slightly hypocritical given how he grabbed huge fistfuls of Dorian’s robes to pull him closer.

“I’ll tear whatever I fucking like,” Dorian snapped, his voice muffled by the hard line of Cullen’s jaw. One hand gripped the back of Cullen’s neck, the other fumbled across his arm until it locked onto his wrist.

A raw moan tore out of Cullen’s throat, his knees going weak as he nearly collapsed onto Dorian. Never loosening his grip on Dorian’s robes, he murmured, “I want to fuck you while I’m wearing this.”

“Uh, am I interrupting something?”

Varric stood in the doorway, an expression of confused disbelief on his face.

“Varric!” Cullen shoved Dorian’s chest, growling, “Let go, you idiot!” under his breath when Dorian seemed frozen.

Dorian released him with a muttered curse in Tevene. Cullen lost no time taking several large steps back and straightening his clothing. He was blushing so hard that his cheeks felt like they were actually burning.

“Your timing is impeccable as always, Varric.” Dorian sounded entirely calm and even-keeled, especially considering he had a red bite mark on his neck. 

“I try.” Varric closed the door behind him. “So I couldn’t wait to tell you both the crazy-ass rumors I heard on my way back from Kirkwall! Wild stuff, like that you two were shoving your tongues down each other’s throats.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen murmured, burying his face in his hands. “Please pretend you didn’t see that?”

“Oh, it’s burned onto my retinas, like I stared into the sun,” Varric responded, arms crossed. He stayed by the door, staring at them both with an unusually reserved expression. “So,  _ this _ is new.”

“Yes, well, I have to get back to work, always something to do!” The words emerged in a jumble as Cullen herded Dorian towards the door in an effort to shove the mage and dwarf bodily out of the room. “Dorian will explain everything, we’ll catch up later, glad you’re home!”

“Wait, I’m not-”

“Curly-”

But it was too late. He successfully forced them both out of the room, locking the door behind him and earning some much-needed privacy.

Maker’s breath, what a debacle. 

Cullen returned his new clothes to their place on the mannequin, taking an exceptionally long time to make sure everything was in order. He then waited by the door, trying to gauge if Varric and Dorian were actually gone. It was quiet, which was a good sign. He had never known either of them to actually be silent for longer than a minute or two. Opening the door as if he expected an abomination on the other side, he was enormously relieved to see that the coast was clear.

Now he just had to avoid Varric for the rest of his life.

That lasted until nightfall, when there was a knock at the door to Cullen’s office. “Enter!”

“Quick, stop sucking face.”

Cullen’s cheeks flared red again at the mere memory. “Hello, Varric.”

Varric leaned against the door, wearing that familiar expression of being entertained by everything and everyone. “Oh good, caught you when you weren’t wrapped around Sparkler like an octopus.”

“I would  _ pay you _ to never mention that again,” Cullen offered desperately.

“Curly, I’m a merchant prince, you’ve never even seen enough gold to bribe me.” Varric grinned from ear to ear. “And there’s no price for being able to pull on your pigtails for the rest of eternity.”

With a despairing sound, Cullen scrubbed his hand across his face. “You’re terrible.”

“I missed you, too!” Varric stepped back, holding the door open with one hand. “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink, tell you about Kirkwall, and regale you with lots of half-true stories, it’ll be fun.” 

Varric was clearly not about to take ‘no’ as an answer. Cullen rose from his seat, aiming for a stern expression.  _ “One _ drink.”

“You got it, Curly.”

Varric wasted no time, spending the entire trip down the steps describing in detail how miniature griffins created by blood magic were now infesting the cliffs of Kirkwall. “Thousands of them, all of them bright blue! You can’t even see them when they come out of the sky-”

Cullen was already fighting a smile when they reached the courtyard. It was mostly empty this time of night, with the lights of the tavern in the distance being the only real sign of life. There was a strange, distantly familiar  _ pop-hiss _ noise from behind him, near Varric, and-

The world was blurry, like he was staring at it through a thick fog. He recognized the mosaic ceiling of Dorian’s Fade creation, a frozen swirl of blue and green color. Everything felt strange, slow, like he was trying to wade through thigh-high mud. Time didn’t seem to pass normally, or at all. 

_ What was happening? _

“Huh. Kinky.”

He sat up on the bed with a gasp, looking around the room in alarm. There was nothing unusual to be seen. It was the same warm room, the same wall of glass overlooking a quiet jungle. Dorian stood at the foot of the bed, the fine golden chain connected to Cullen’s ankle cuff clutched in one fist. The only thing out of place was that Dorian was wearing the robes of a southern Circle mage.

“Whargflec?” was a general approximation of the confused noise Cullen produced.

“Are you with me, Commander?” Dorian asked, looking at Cullen with a strange expression. He was running his thumb along the chain, his gaze flitting from it to Cullen’s ankle cuff. 

Rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand, Cullen grunted an affirmative and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. 

“Sorry to wake you,” Dorian said, not moving from the foot of the bed. “I was just admiring the view.”

Rolling his eyes, Cullen said, “Yes, the tilework is  _ exquisite _ .” Scratching his jaw, he added, “Why are you dressed that way?”

“What way?”

“Like a southern mage.” Cullen gestured to the long, dark blue robes.

“Hmm? Oh, I’m trying something new.” Dorian gave him an unusually sunny smile. “Something fun, for you.”

Cullen blinked. “...what?”

“This is all for you,” Dorian purred, circling the bed to perch on it next to Cullen. “All under your control. I wanted to give you a chance to enjoy yourself.”

His voice was an octave higher than it should have been when he repeated,  _ “...what?” _

“Don’t you want to punish me for being a naughty mage, Knight-Commander?” Dorian’s voice was a sultry rumble as he leaned into Cullen’s space. 

The heat that flooded him was intense and frankly surprising. He’d always recoiled from jokes about turning mages and Templars into some sort of dirty game. Apparently, there was enough distance between his past and Dorian that it didn’t provoke an immediate sense of guilty revulsion. But he hadn’t gotten this far by being an idiot. He flattened a hand against Dorian’s chest, holding him at arm’s length. “All right, stop. What are you up to?”

“Up to?” Dorian quirked an eyebrow. His voice still a velvety drawl, he added, “All sorts of things, Knight-Commander. I’ll never tell you, no matter how many times you spank me!”

Cullen pushed him further away. “Maker’s breath, what is wrong with you?”

Tilting his head, Dorian asked, “Too much?” 

Voice flat, Cullen responded, “I’ve met Desire demons that didn’t come on so strong.”

Dorian rolled his eyes and sat back, the mask of smoldering lust vanishing entirely. “Well, excuse me for trying to make things interesting. Everyone’s a critic. Would you prefer to just bend me over something? The bed  _ is _ right here.”

Cullen flushed red. “What the--stop it! Go splash yourself with cold water or whatever it will take to calm you down. Something strange is going on here.”

“Strange?”

“The last thing I remember is talking to Varric in my office.” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, trying to make sense of things. “Did I fall down the stairs or something?”

“You remember talking to Varric?” Dorian asked, his expression suddenly sharper. “And that’s all? Do you remember anything else about your day?”

“Yes, that’s the odd part.” He very deliberately did not mention that lost time and blurred memories were a symptom of lyrium withdrawal. He had experienced that before, but never without warning, never in the middle of an otherwise normal day. If he was beginning to lose time without ever realizing it…

“Are you all right?” Dorian reached out and cupped the side of his neck. When Cullen leaned against his hand, the movement instinctive, he looked surprised.

“Fine,” Cullen said brusquely. He would not start worrying until he knew there was something definite to worry about. “Just thinking.”

“Walk me through your day,” Dorian insisted. “What  _ do _ you remember?” 

He shrugged. “Waking up, the morning roster, running troop drills, a meeting to try and manage those supply line issues we’re having in the Emerald Graves...nothing of note at all, really, besides the visit to the tailors.”

“That’s right.” Dorian nodded. His expression hadn’t lost that sharp look, like he was searching for something in Cullen’s face. “The visit to the tailor, where you tried on your fancy new outfit for Summerday. For the party.”

“Yes, yes, the only thing anyone cares to talk about is that party, as if we aren’t-”

“The party where you’ll be shown off as my  _ consort.” _ Dorian emphasized the word. “The darling, pampered pet of a Tevinter magister.”

“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds unlikely and ridiculous.”

That surprised a laugh out of Dorian. “To put it lightly.”

Cullen shrugged. “I’ve told you that I’ll do what I can to make things believable. We’re never going to be anyone’s idea of normal, but neither is the Inquisition.”

“Hmm.” Dorian was staring at him, his expression skeptical and searching.

“What?”

“You know, speaking of Varric, I’ve been reading his book, the one about Kirkwall.”

“ _ Hard in Hightown?  _ You and everyone else on the continent.”

“No, no, the one about the Champion.” Dorian gave that oddly sunny grin again. “I’m at the chapter where our dashing hero Hawke meets you!”

“That ‘book’ is prone to wild exaggeration and frankly ridiculous combat scenes,” Cullen said flatly. 

“So Hawke didn’t meet you while you were beating some poor stupid recruit senseless?”

“That recruit was literally an abomination!” Cullen scowled. “There was an entire conspiracy of blood mages and abominations, it must have reminded you of home.”

Half-smiling, Dorian tilted his head. “You just seemed to have some very definite opinions on mages, magic, and the dangers of it. What else will I find in that book?”

“A city that was determined to eat itself.”

Dorian continued pressing. “You were Meredith’s right hand, and now suddenly you’re just fine with me ‘blooming your rose?’ What would the boss lady say?”

“Go fuck yourself!” Cullen snapped, glaring. “I’m not going to be lectured by you, of all people, about having skeletons in my closet!”

Dorian opened his mouth, but seemed to change course in mid-thought. “Huh.”

“If you’re determined to pick a fight, then leave,” Cullen ordered.

**“Yes.”** Dorian’s voice boomed out from all around them, like the rumble of thunder during a storm.  **“Run and hide, because I ** ** _will _ ** **find you.”**

Cullen went still, his eyes darting to the ‘Dorian’ sitting next to him. That Dorian grimaced and said, in an infuriatingly familiar voice, “Oh bollocks.”

There was a rush of vertigo, which Cullen recognized as a sign that he was waking suddenly. When he opened his eyes again, safely back in the physical world, he was staring at Varric and Garrett Hawke.

He took in the scene quickly, his eyes lingering only long enough to pick out the details. He was tied to a chair in the center of a rough, one-room shack. There were runes drawn on the floor in lyrium, surrounding him in an unpleasant echo of the blood magic ritual. Hawke rubbed sleep from his eyes. Varric stood watch by the door, crossbow drawn.

_ “You.” _

“Don’t worry, we’re going to help you,” Varric said, his tone pitched low and reassuring. “Don’t panic.”

“Uh, Varric?” Hawke sounded  _ embarrassed, _ of all things. “We’ve got a problem.”

“Do we need to get moving?” Varric asked, his gaze going to the door.

“I’m going to kill you both!” Cullen hissed, thrashing against the ropes that held him.

“It’s gonna be fine, Curly, we won’t leave you behind.” Varric had the gall to offer him a friendly smile. “I know you’re under Sparkler’s thrall or whatever, but-”

“Varric!” Hawke interjected, teeth gritted. “I don’t think he’s being mind-controlled.”

The smile dropped off Varric’s face. “...well, shit.”

\---

The sequence of events apparently went something like this: 

Varric had been in Kirkwall when he received word that Cullen had been poisoned by red lyrium. Even with the fastest boat available, the trip across the Waking Sea to Highever had taken a week and a half. By the time he’d landed, he had been greeted with a very barebones summary of the situation: Cullen was alive, Dorian had saved him, all was well. Then, less than a week later when he was barely out of the Storm Coast, Varric had received another barebones summary from one of Leliana’s ravens: Cullen was Dorian’s new consort.

“So at that point, I’m thinking that this is some big ol’ Tevinter-style blood magic,” Varric explained, “because all the news out of Skyhold keeps getting more and more insane. And then the official announcement hit when I was still in West Hill, and I still wasn’t getting any messages to reassure me that this wasn’t an elaborate practical joke.”

Cullen had been untied by that point, and was nibbling some rabbit jerky with a scowl. “Leliana’s done everything she can to keep the words ‘blood magic ritual’ from ever leaving Skyhold’s walls. She’s certainly not going to send out a raven with the truth just tied around its ankle.”

“Look, that makes sense  _ now _ , but at the time, I was flying blind.” Varric sat across from him, Bianca the crossbow no longer cocked and loaded. “And we encountered this exact scenario in Kirkwall about a dozen different times.”

“Once, the blood mages were working at the Blooming Rose,” Hawke said wistfully. “Apostitutes!” When Cullen just scowled, he added, “Listen, you have to admit that’s some good wordplay.”

“Isabela came up with that, not you,” Varric pointed out.

“I’m borrowing it, she gave me permission!”

“So after you decided Dorian was using blood magic to mind control the Inquisitor and myself, you leapt immediately to kidnapping me?” Cullen asked, arms crossed.

“ _ Rescuing _ you,” Hawke insisted. “And no, there were some steps in between that.”

“Hawke was still wrapping things up in Crestwood, so I met up with him there. We were both really pleased with ourselves for figuring out the big conspiracy to mind control the Wardens and the Inquisition.” Varric had the grace to look embarrassed. “In my defense, it  _ is _ a more interesting story than ‘Maxwell fumbles around like a blind nug and bosses around blood mages and regular mages alike’’.” 

“It was pretty cute, he was very determined to save his favorite ex-Templar,” Hawke teased, before adding, “My favorite ex-Templar is obviously Carver. Sorry.”

Cullen rubbed his temples. His fury at finding himself kidnapped had faded in the face of Varric’s clear, surprisingly strong concern for him. He and the dwarf had never had much chance to speak in Kirkwall, given that Varric had always been glued to Hawke’s side. The idea that Varric had come to care enough about him to put his own life at risk…

Cullen was never sure how to handle affection when it was aimed at him. He always felt undeserving of it.

“Anyway, our plan was that I’d come to Skyhold and get the lay of the land before we did anything drastic,” Varric explained. “I get there, everyone is acting normal, talking up this Summerday festival like the whole consort thing isn’t nuttier than nug shit.  _ Then _ I find you and Pavus trying to lick each other’s tonsils.”

“I told him to explain things to you!” 

“And like an absolute coward, he passed me off to Maxwell,” Varric continued. “Maxwell has the stones to pretend like he’s ‘too busy to talk right now’ and says we’ll ‘discuss it tomorrow,’ when I know for a fact that he’s just changing the tint on his armor again.”

Scowling, Cullen said, “I was very clear with him about telling his inner circle the truth of the matter.”

“Why have a difficult conversation today when you can procrastinate?” Hawke offered. “I admire that kind of leadership.”

“Maker’s breath.” Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. “So at that point, you decided, what, the entire castle was under some sort of spell?”

“Exactly.” Varric gestured to Hawke. “We’d decided ahead of time to try and haul you out of there no matter what, since you seemed to be the focus of all the lunacy. So I waited until nightfall, hit you with a knockout bomb, and Hawke and I smuggled you down the mountain to this scenic little shack.”

“How did you get me out of the castle without anyone seeing?”

With a delighted grin, Varric said, “I rolled you up in a rug! You fit perfectly, too, like a glove-

“Your bullshit is even less funny than usual right now,” Cullen snapped.

“That’s no way to talk to your dashing rescuers,” Hawke said, tsking. 

“And you!” Cullen turned his ire towards Hawke. “How did you get into my mind? You’re no Dreamer.”

“I could be!”

“Varric would have made up a hundred stories about it already.”

“Okay, fair argument.” Hawke gestured broadly. “I knew a Dreamer, a kid named Feynriel. The Dalish have a ritual that can send a person into someone else’s mind in the Fade. We decided to use it on you to figure out what mass delusion everyone was under, and maybe knock you out of the illusion entirely.”

“And that included propositioning me?”

“Hey, hey, I found you wearing silky pants and chained to bed!”

“I’m learning so much about your sex life, Curly,” Varric mused. “Like that you have one, for example.”

“Look, in Feynriel’s dreams, pointing out the parts of the illusion that didn’t make sense was enough to snap him out of it,” Hawke explained. “I tried to poke at the parts that seemed, y’know, unlikely.”

“You’re both idiots,” Cullen sighed. After a moment, he added, “But...thank you for trying to help me. I--well, I appreciate the intent behind it.”

“You’re welcome!” Hawke offered the sunny grin that had been so out of place on Dorian’s face. “You can tell your new husband not to kill us.”

Cullen had to take a deep breath before he could respond to that statement with anything besides screaming. “He’s not my husband. He’s really,  _ really _ not my husband.”

“I get it, Fenris and I didn’t do labels either,” Hawke said, nodding sagely.

It was amazing, Cullen reflected, that one man could be so infuriating.

“Hawke said Sparkler showed up right at the end?” Varric asked. “Or his voice, at least? He didn’t sound happy, and I’m a smidge concerned that he’s going to come in swinging.”

“He may,” Cullen admitted. “I’m sure he’s sounded an alarm by now. How far down the mountain from Skyhold are we? If we head back now, we can keep everyone from going to the trouble of forming a search party.” He gave Varric a look. “It might even stop Cassandra from punching you so hard that you go airborne.”

Varric blanched. “Not funny!”

The first sign of trouble came a few minutes later, when they had gathered their things and stepped out of the shack. Varric, city-raised as he was, didn’t notice anything amiss. But Hawke and Cullen had both grown up in the countryside, and they immediately noticed the complete silence. None of the nocturnal animals were making any sound at all, as if a predator was nearby. Or several predators.

“Shit,” Hawke sighed. “No good deed goes unpunished.”

That was when the first reanimated corpse staggered out of the trees, howling for blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: only about 22 days have passed in the story since the blood magic ritual happened back in chapter 4. So as Dorian and Cullen have been tentatively getting to know each other, Varric has been absolutely losing his mind on the road.


	20. Chapter 20

Hawke gave a startled yelp and sent a fireball at the corpse, incinerating it in a puff of smoke and rotted, burning meat. “Eugh! Gross! I had enough of these things in Crestwood!”

“Sparkler’s found us,” Varric said grimly. “That was quicker than it should have been. We’re hidden well down here.”

“He can track me.” Cullen scanned the woods, straining to pick out more movement.

“What?!” 

“Is that what the tattoo is?” Hawke asked, twirling his staff to loosen up his muscles. 

_ “What fucking tattoo?” _ Varric hissed, in a tone that indicated this was an ongoing conversation.

“Yes, among other things.” Cullen rubbed his wrist in the spot where he knew one of the lines lay. “He knows where we are now, so it’s just a matter of waiting for him to arrive and telling him to stand down.”

“You think he’ll listen to you?” Hawke asked, eyebrow raised.

“This is all just a very stupid misunderstanding, it will be fine.” Cullen paused. “Hawke, give me a knife or something.”

“Why do you just assume I have a-”

“Hawke,  _ give me the knife that I know you have.” _

With an irritated huff, Hawke reached down to his belt and unsheathed a dagger. “Fine, but don’t lose it! Merrill gave it to me.”

It wasn’t a sword, but Cullen much preferred it to being unarmed.

They waited in tense silence, the only sound the faint crackle of fire at the tip of Hawke’s staff. After a moment, Hawke whispered, “How many bodies could be on this mountain, anyway?”

Varric made a despairing noise. “Why would you ask that?”

It was then, of course, that a ragged group of twenty corpses in various states of decay poured out of the trees.

The harsh climate of the Frostbacks had been killing unwary or unlucky travelers for thousands of years. Some of the bodies were little more than bare bones held together with a few wiry ligaments and the purple glow of Dorian’s magic. Most were fresher, still covered in rotting flesh and muscle, but Cullen was relieved to see that all were at least several years dead. 

The Inquisition had managed to retrieve all but a few of the bodies of pilgrims who had fallen on that first frightening trek to Skyhold. This wasn’t how Cullen would want to find more of the missing.

The first few corpses out of the trees fell to Varric’s arrows, the bolts tearing through the fragile skin and fractured bone holding them together. Another four were flung into the sky by Hawke’s magic, dropping back to the earth with wet thuds and splitting like overripe fruit. But the remaining corpses were still running full-tilt towards them, and Cullen adjusted his grip on the dagger before throwing himself forward into the fray. 

It wasn’t his favorite way to fight - he preferred swords, shields, and maces rather than the precision tools of a rogue. But like all Templars he’d received a comprehensive training, and Cullen had always been a dutiful student. He would need to keep clear of the teeth and the claws, paying attention for any that might be cognizant enough to wield weapons. Quick jabs to the tendons and flesh holding them together rather than trying to aim for veins or arteries like he would on a living being, and he would need to-

The corpses ran past him, as if they didn’t even see him.

Cullen lost a few seconds to his own confusion, before his training kicked to life and he whirled to chase the nearest one. As he closed in, it became clear that they really  _ didn’t  _ see him or notice him at all. Even when he grabbed one by the back of its rotting hair and plunged the knife into its throat, it just clawed mindlessly in Hawke and Varric’s direction. He sawed at what remained of its spine, the head disconnecting fully. Even in its last seconds, the corpse scanned the space where Cullen stood as if it was looking at empty air. When it collapsed back into a pile of bones and Cullen ran to attack the next one, the result was exactly the same.

“Cullen! You’re invisible to dead people!” Hawke shouted with a laugh, before bringing a wave of force magic down on two corpses and smashing them to pulp.

Between the three of them, they made quick work of the reanimated bodies. Cullen in particular moved through them like an assassin, unnoticed and sharp. It was almost  _ fun, _ wholly disconnected from the normal brutality of battle. The final body was little more than a collection of bones, and it collapsed to the ground with a rattle as Varric’s arrow punched through its ribs and spine.

There was a moment of silence while they all scanned the woods for more corpses, and then Varric asked, “Curly? Want to fill us in?”

“I have no idea,” Cullen said, kneeling down to wipe his blade clean on the grass. “The only thing I can think of is that the marks might provide some manner of protection.”

“If Pavus is the one sending these things, then you may be on to something.” Hawke approached, reaching out towards Cullen’s arm. With a sigh, Cullen let him examine his hand and wrist. “This snake is essentially a big, obnoxious ‘Property of Dorian Pavus’ sign. Maybe his little minions think you’re one of them.”

Cullen sent Hawke a flat, unamused look, but before he could respond further, there was a groaning sound from the treeline.

Staggering out from the woods was at least two squads of reanimated chevaliers, some still wearing the ragged standards of the late Emperor Florian. Probably lost to the elements during the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden, then. And beside them…

Cullen sucked in a sharp breath, and heard Varric murmur, “Ah, shit.”

Three revenants, glowing with unearthly purple light through the eye slits of their helmets. Floating beside them were two arcane horrors, shimmering with the same purple energy. And in the middle of it all, Dorian.

He was a wonder and a terror, wreathed in crackling purple-white magic and a mist of blood. The sight of him sent a jolt of fear through Cullen, as primal and instinctive as cringing back from a roaring bear. He had seen dozens of mages look much the same, caught up in the wave of their own power and desire. Abominations usually followed, and for a moment Cullen was nothing but a green boy, standing in Kinloch Hold and watching as a wave of demons roared towards him.

“The new husband’s got a temper and a bad case of blood magic!” Hawke’s voice snapped Cullen out of it. The Champion was a sense memory as deeply rooted to Kirkwall as the sound of gulls or the smell of Darktown, and he could not exist at the same time as Kinloch.

“Not my damned husband!” Cullen snapped. Then he yelled out, “Dorian! Stand down! This is a mistake!”

Dorian’s head whipped towards him, as graceful and deadly as a viper. There was recognition in his gaze, and for a moment Cullen was relieved. But unseeing, animal fury was carved into the lines of his face. When he opened his mouth, Cullen felt a sense of dread.

This would not end well.

“Come to me!” Dorian roared, power and fury distorting his voice into something deep and thundering. When Cullen just stared, rooted to the spot, Dorian raised a hand. Blood meandered down his arm from a deep cut on the back of his arm. Even from a distance, Cullen could smell the coppery tang of blood magic.

_ “Come to me!” _

Cullen's legs moved on their own, carrying him forward towards the charging tide of corpses. He didn’t even have the presence of mind to struggle, caught in the familiar haze of a thrall. His muscles were relaxed, nearly limp, and it was only the magic wrapped around him that kept him upright at all. He was a puppet on strings.

When he rolled his eyes downwards, he saw the bright outline of scales shining white on his skin. It was the serpent, visible to him for the first time and glowing golden as Dorian’s magic roared through him.

_ It’s pretty, _ he thought woozily. 

“Cullen!” 

He could hear screaming behind him, the sound of fighting, but it was like being in a dream. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t even turn.The corpses parted around him like a river flowing around an upraised rock. When he reached Dorian, the arcane horror floating beside him leaned in close, like it was studying him.

“Dorian,” Cullen slurred, his lips feeling fat and numb. “Y’ need to...to…”

“You’re all right!” Dorian sounded nearly breathless with relief, and he pulled Cullen into a kiss that was all possession. The force of it made Cullen’s already shaky knees even weaker, and he gasped softly as Dorian bit kisses into his lips and jaw.

It might have been romantic, except Cullen could hear Hawke and Varric shouting in the background and see strips of rotting skin hanging off the arcane horror’s neck. He pushed back against Dorian’s chest.

“You have to...have to stop.” Speech was hard, none of his muscles willing to move easily without Dorian’s permission. Beneath the preternatural calm that had been forced on him, Cullen’s nerves were screaming in alarm. 

“I’ll kill them for touching you, for taking you!” Dorian’s voice barely sounded human, and Cullen could  _ feel  _ the force of his anger. The marks glowed brighter, almost blinding, and Cullen had a very real, distinct sense of Dorian’s mind, his possessiveness. It was almost like a physical thing, wrapped around him as tightly as the coils of the Fade tattoo.

It was hard to think, hard to do anything besides sag into Dorian’s arms like it was the only safe place in the world. But he could hear Hawke grunting with exertion, hear Varric’s crossbow twanging again and again. All around them, the corpses groaned and creaked like the monsters they were.

He needed to do something, anything, before someone was hurt.

If he was still taking lyrium, it would have been easy. He had trained his entire life for a situation like this, and now he’d voluntarily made himself as helpless as any civilian. If he’d possessed the muscle control, Cullen might have laughed bitterly. Or just screamed.

He had to try. Even if the only lyrium in his system was rooted in his bones, he still had to try.

Cullen let himself sag against Dorian, laying his head against the other man’s shoulder. One final time, he murmured, “Stop.”

“You’re safe,” Dorian murmured, stroking a hand through his hair and gazing at him with...with something very much like complete adoration. “I’ll kill anyone who ever tries to take you away.”

From what felt like far away, he heard Hawke scream.

Cullen forced a deep breath through his slack throat.  _ All right. Nothing ventured, nothing gained _

It was still easy to call on the lyrium, as second-nature as humming.  _ Focus, breathe in, reach down into the borrowed power that sings. _ Actually doing something with it was harder. Using the powers lyrium granted used to be as easy as thought, as easy as breath. Now it felt like trying to drag himself uphill by his fingertips. It  _ hurt _ , where once it had been soothing.

But Cullen was no stranger to pain, or to struggle. 

Dorian had enough time to notice that Cullen had gone stiff in his arms. “What are-”

The Spell Purge exploded out from Cullen, enveloping Dorian and the nearby arcane horror that was standing guard. It was a burst of blinding white light, and it was like throwing a blanket over a fire to smother it. The magic swirling around Dorian and through the corpses sputtered and died as surely as a flame without air. The arcane horror let out a scream before vanishing entirely, the demon within it banished back to the Fade with all the gentleness of a sledgehammer. All it left behind was a pile of bones and rags, the remnants of whatever mage’s corpse it had possessed.

Cullen felt like someone had reached deep into his chest and done their best to yank his heart out of place. His breath was a gasp, a wheeze, and when Dorian’s grip on him loosened, he collapsed to the ground. Black spots danced in his vision, threatening to overwhelm him completely. His bones hurt, like he’d slammed into something hard enough to rattle his skeleton, and every joint in his body screamed in pain.

Dorian sank to the ground next to him, holding his head like he was in pain. “What was--what did you--”

Cut off from Dorian’s mana, the corpses on the battlefield dropped suddenly. Without spirits to animate them, they were nothing more than bones. They fell where they stood, leaving only a revenant and the other arcane horror standing. Whatever demons Dorian had bound to them were strong enough to survive in the physical world without a mage’s will keeping them in place. 

He needed to get up, needed to help Hawke and Varric, but...his legs wouldn’t work. None of Cullen’s muscles were responding to his commands at all, exhaustion sapping every bit of strength he had. Trying to stand made his vision go completely black, and for a moment Cullen thought he was on the verge of passing out.

Dorian stared at him, pale and confused and clearly still angry. “What did you  _ do?!” _

Cullen could only lay his head against the grass and focus on breathing. 

Time seemed to slip, and Cullen would later realize that he had been falling in and out of consciousness. The sounds of combat faded in, faded out, and Dorian’s increasingly annoyed cursing did the same. From his spot on the ground, he watched as Hawke’s magic occasionally flared into his field of vision. 

There was a gurgling sound, a revenant in its final moments. 

Then Varric was standing over him.

“Warm fucking welcome, Sparkler.”

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Varric, but you will not take him from me.” Dorian’s voice was vicious, all threat even without his magic to back it up.

With a groan of effort, Cullen flopped over onto his back. “They thought they were rescuing me.” Maker, but speaking was hard right now. As the battle adrenaline faded, Cullen was aware of how much he hurt. “Thought you were using blood magic on everyone. Not a kidnapping.” He heaved a shaky breath and added,  _ “Idiots.” _

Then he passed out properly.

When he came to again, he was being levitated. Cullen thrashed instinctively, alarmed at the hum of magic around him.

“Easy there, don’t make me drop you.” Hawke’s voice.

Maker above, every single inch of him hurt. Cullen groaned weakly as he tried to move. Even opening his eyes was a struggle.

Hawke was walking beside him, maintaining the spell to keep him floating. Skyhold loomed in the distance, growing larger with every step. Behind him, he could hear the sound of Dorian and Varric arguing. 

“I figured floating you would be easier than trying to carry you, considering you’re dead weight.” Hawke was as chipper as ever, even though Cullen could see that one of the corpses had dragged claws across his shoulder. “Unless you can walk on your own, of course.”

“I can,” Cullen said immediately. Then he yelped as just straightening his legs caused his knees to explode with pain, the joints as useless and locked as rusted door hinges.

“Yeah, thought so. Save your strength for breathing, killer.” 

With a grunt of assent, Cullen let himself slump against the magic. It was holding him in an upright position, the toes of his boots floating a few inches off the ground. He’d known Hawke was skilled in force magic, but he was impressed anew with his degree of control. It was very easy to put too much pressure on the object being levitated, crushing it without ever meaning to. In Kirkwall, the instructors teaching the apprentices had floated chicken eggs around the room to demonstrate their control. Cullen was far heavier than an egg, but Hawke showed no sign of strain at all.

It was easy to forget how much raw power Hawke really had, hidden as it was behind a sunny grin and a wall of bad jokes.

“Thanks for the Spell Purge back there,” Hawke commented. “The look on the magister’s face was really its own reward.”

Cullen just grunted.

“I couldn’t help but notice that it seems to have nearly killed you, though.” Hawke never lost his casual tone. “That’s a little concerning.”

“I’m fine,” Cullen said, trying to put some strength into his voice. “Just tired.”

“Uh-huh. In Kirkwall, I saw you firing off Smites and Spell Purges one after the other, like a little anti-magic parade, and you were fighting in full armor all the while.” Hawke’s gaze could be surprisingly sharp when he was focused entirely on one person. “You don’t smell like lyrium anymore, Cullen.”

“It’s none of your business.”

Hawke let him drop sharply before pulling him back into position.

“Argh! Damn you!” 

“It’s not my business, sure, but when has that ever stopped me?” Hawke tilted his head. “What’s going on, Cullen? Are you sick?”

“No!” Cullen snapped, more defensive than he’d intend. After a moment, he sighed and added, “I’ve stopped taking lyrium.”

Hawke was silent, then said, “When most people opt for a really drawn-out suicide, they just drink themselves to death. That’s a lot more fun than lyrium withdrawal, or so I’ve heard.”

“I’m not trying to die.” Experimentally, Cullen moved his fingers. Even clenching them a little made his hands shake, like he was an ancient old man wracked with arthritis. “I’m not a Templar anymore, and I...I won’t be bound to the Order or the Chantry.”

“Hmm.” Hawke’s face was impossible to read, his expression never shifting from casual interest. They moved another half-mile up the mountain in silence before he finally spoke again.

“Tell me how it goes, won’t you? Carver seems to be regretting those lifetime vows too. He’s always been the more impulsive Hawke brother, you know.”

That made Cullen snort in amusement, despite everything. “Funny, he says the same thing about you.” He gave Hawke the chance to make an affronted noise, and then continued, “I’m not planning to keep the results to myself. If I can survive this, it will change things for so many of us.”

“And are you? Surviving it, I mean.”

“So far. It’s not pleasant, but-”

“Templars hate pleasant things anyway.”

That made Cullen snort again. He could feel himself starting to lag. Even speech was hard right now. 

Hawke noticed, “Rest up. I’ll wake you if there’s anything exciting.”

***

Their return to Skyhold caused no small amount of chaos, considering that almost no one had been aware that he or Dorian were gone. Cullen tried to keep alert and answer questions, but he could barely keep himself upright. After only a few rounds of questioning from the various guards on duty, Dorian finally snapped, “Tomorrow! We will deal with all of this  _ tomorrow. _ The Commander needs rest.”

Then Dorian slipped an arm around his waist and began nearly carrying him up the stairs.

“The stables are the other way,” Cullen murmured, all his focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

“We’re going to my quarters.”

It was a mark of Cullen’s exhaustion that he didn’t even mount a token protest. 

When they reached Dorian’s room, Cullen let himself be undressed down to his smalls, too achy and miserable to do more besides grunt. Dorian handled him gently, running his fingers across every bared inch of Cullen’s skin like he was trying to reassure himself that Cullen was really there.

When he was safely tucked into the bed, wrapped in a delightfully warm quilt, Cullen finally said, “You came for me.”

Dorian was propped against the headboard, just  _ watching  _ him. “Yes.”

“We should probably…” It was a struggle to keep his eyes open, but this was important. “Probably talk. In the Fade?”

Dorian shook his head. “Not tonight. There’s far too much to cover.” His expression darkened slightly, and he looked away. “And the only thing I’m really in the mood to do is punish you.”

Cullen snorted. A month ago, that would have set him on edge. But he’d just watched Dorian tuck him into bed like a doting nursemaid. “Oooh, scary magister.”

That earned him a glare. “If you weren’t half-dead, I’d do it anyway.”

Perhaps it was the exhaustion, or the ridiculous series of events that had led up to it, but Cullen only laughed and said, “Do  _ that  _ in the Fade, then. I’m going to sleep.”

If Dorian responded, Cullen was already slipping away.

When he stirred in the Fade, safe in the sunroom, Cullen was relieved to find that he was in no pain at all, that he could move easily without strain. He rolled over, tucked himself in, and continued his nap. Perhaps Solas was onto something after all.

After what must have been some time, he felt the Fade shifting around him. Dorian was doing something, must have been--

“That sounded like a dare to me, Commander.”

He was on his hands and knees, kneeling on plush pillows, and-

There was something in his ass. It was long and just thick enough, and it was _ moving. _ Every stroke brushed teasingly against his prostate, and Maker, his hole was  _ dripping _ with some kind of warm grease. He was hard, so hard, he could feel his heartbeat pulsing in his cock. 

Cullen moaned, the sound ripping itself from his throat, and it was only then that he realized his hands were chained. Cuffs like the one on his ankle were locked around both wrists and bolted to the floor, keeping him kneeling on the ground. And, he realized, keeping him from reaching back to touch his cock.

“What--what-”

“I think you’ve become a little too comfortable, Cullen.” Dorian was above him, lounging, his bare feet propped on Cullen’s back like he was a piece of furniture. When Cullen looked up at him, his gaze was dark and ravenous. “I think it might be helpful to remind you who it is you’re dealing with.”

Whatever was in him jolted forward suddenly, thrusting in even deeper and slamming against a spot inside of him that made Cullen whine and claw at the pillows. He couldn’t help but rock against it, his hips moving of their own accord at that point.

“This is--you can’t-” Every time he tried to form words, the thing in him would jab against the bundle of nerves, reducing Cullen to nothing but moans and helpless sounds of pleasure. 

Had he ever been this hard, this desperate in his entire life? Was it even possible to be this sensitive in the physical world? Every breath of air against his skin felt like fingers caressing him. The fake cock in him, whatever it was, moved relentlessly, never pausing for even a moment.

“I can do anything I like to you. You’re my consort.” Dorian’s voice was a rumble, a caress, and Cullen could feel the weight of his gaze as surely as he felt the cock moving inside of him. “You’re  _ mine.” _

“T-take this out!” He couldn’t put any force into the words, and the thick slide in and out of his hole made him want to sob with pleasure. He needed to come, he wanted so much- “Unchain my hands!”

“You’re giving me orders?” Dorian laughed, and the phallus thrust hard into Cullen once, twice, three times, hitting his prostate on every stroke.

It left Cullen a gasping wreck, his legs shaking nearly too much to stay up. “Oh, oh, oh, please-”

“You’ll come like this, untouched,” Dorian said it calmly, as if there was no other possible option. “Do you know what’s in you, Cullen?”

The noises spilling past his lips were pathetic, whorish. Maker, he was so full, it was so warm and hot and  _ good _ . All he could do was whimper and spread his legs wider, arching his back to meet each thrust.

“My magic,” Dorian purred. “I had to watch  _ Hawke  _ wrap his magic around you to carry you back to Skyhold, and that was after I watched him wearing my body in this dreamscape.”

“Please, please, touch me, just--” Cullen could barely manage words, rocking back and whining like a dog in heat. When he looked up towards Dorian, pleading, it was to find the mage touching himself.

“So I thought it might be  _ instructive  _ to remind you who saved your life, who you’re bound to.” Dorian braced a foot on Cullen’s back and let his other leg cant out to the side. He was stroking his cock in a leisurely way, as if he had nothing better to do. “Whose magic is deep, deep in you.”

The magic (some kind of force magic, exceptional control, fuck he couldn’t even  _ think _ ) sank into him again and again, picking up pace until Cullen was nearly sobbing with need. He was helpless, desperate, lost to the pleasure like an animal.

“Please,” he whined, barely recognizing his own voice, “please, please, I need-”

“Who do you belong to?” Dorian’s voice was breathy, his pace picking up as he stroked his cock. “Who owns you, who’s making you cry from fucking you so well?”

“You!” Cullen cried out. He was facedown against the pillows by now, his ass high in the air as Dorian’s magic pounded into him. “You, Dorian! Please, please, please!”

“Come for me, pretty Cullen,” Dorian growled.

The orgasm rocked him to his core, his whole body caught up in the ecstasy of it. He was moaning, he realized, high and pathetic and so needy. His come spattered up across his belly and chest, coating him in his own spend before it began dripping to the pillows beneath him. It was too much, too good, and his legs gave out all at once.

Cullen collapsed against the pillows. The cock inside of him slowed and stopped moving, but stayed firmly in place. It was still hard and stretching him even through the aftershocks of orgasm, and it made him pant gently even as his own cock softened.

Dorian grunted, and suddenly there was a warm spatter across his back. The mage had come on him, Cullen realized, painting his back in one more mark of possession. He should have been outraged. Perhaps he would be, later, once he could think again.

“I think,” Dorian laughed, “that I can coax another one out of you before we wake. Rest up, darling.”

Against the pillows, Cullen just whined.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Large blocks of italicized text denote a flashback.

Dorian was dragged out of his slumber by a thumping sound, like someone had dropped a sack of vegetables off a table. He rolled over to discover Cullen doing his best to crawl towards the door, his progress hindered by the fact that his limbs were trembling like a newborn colt.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Dorian asked, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and yawning extravagantly.

Cullen was panting for breath and had to lean against the wall to stay upright. “Don’t touch me!”

Rolling his eyes, Dorian rose from the bed and crossed the space between himself and Cullen, skimming his fingers down the muscled lines of the other man’s back. Rather a shame nothing from the Fade transferred over into the physical world. He’d have liked to see Cullen’s back painted with his come. 

Something to keep in mind for later, then.

“Stop being an idiot, you can’t even walk,” Dorian ordered, leaning down to tug at his arms. 

The punch was sloppy and didn’t have much force behind it, glancing off Dorian’s chin to thud on his clavicle instead. He’d taken worse hits purely by accident. But it made him see red, and with a snarl of irritation, he used his foot to shove Cullen back against the wall.

“I’ve been very patient with your bullshit, considering you had the gall to _ take away my magic,” _ Dorian snapped, looming over a snarling Cullen. “But keep defying me and you’ll see just how-”

_ Wait. _ These weren’t his thoughts. Or rather, they weren’t his rational thoughts. It was as if the normal undertow of animal instinct had suddenly risen up like a wave, drowning out everything else. Possessiveness, the urge to dominate and claim, the _ need _ to keep Cullen whether he liked it or not, they all screamed a deafening chorus in his mind.

Cullen was aware of at least some of it, because his voice was grim when he said, “You’re losing control.”

“Not yet,” Dorian said, smoothing his mustache to hide the way his hands shook. “And I...I have a suspicion about what might help, though it’s not something you’ll like. Then again, you barely like anything, so-”

“I’m not staying here,” Cullen snarled. Even just sitting upright against the wall was enough to make him sway, and Dorian could see exhaustion weighing heavy on him.

“Look, I have strict orders to report to Maxwell for a good scolding once I awoke,” Dorian said. “Once I’m finished with that, we can have a long-overdue talk, all right? But you have to stay here.”

“Why?”

Dorian ran through a list of potential lies, each less embarrassing than the last, before grudgingly settling on the truth. “Because I believe knowing you’re here will calm me down.”

Cullen just stared at him, hostile and silent. Dorian was trying to formulate a convincing threat/plea when Cullen grunted, “Help me back onto the bed, then. And keep your hands to yourself.”

“So you’d like me to levitate-”

“You know what I mean.”

With great restraint, Dorian did not roll his eyes. Instead, he knelt, wrapped an arm around Cullen’s torso, and helped his consort back into bed.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” and damn it, he hated the vulnerability in his voice, the neediness. _ “Stay.” _

Back in his nest of blankets, Cullen just glared in lieu of an answer.

_ Fasta vass, _ Dorian should have spanked him when he had the chance.

When he arrived at Maxwell’s quarters, it was to find the Inquisitor sitting at his desk with his head in his hands.

“You look nearly as glad to see me as Cullen was yesterday,” Dorian said, perching in his usual spot on the chaise lounge. 

A muffled snort, then Maxwell looked up. He also looked exhausted, eyes red and skin pale and blotchy. Dorian wondered if he’d slept at all, or if he’d been dealing with the fallout of Varric and Hawke’s “rescue” attempt.

“You know what the most annoying thing about Varric is?” Maxwell asked, not getting up from his desk.

“I have ideas, but I believe Cassandra is actually the expert.”

“For someone who lived in a bar for a decade and makes his money writing smut and cheap crime stories, he sounds remarkably like my parents and teachers when he lectures me.” Maxwell sighed and ran a hand through his mess of coppery curls.

Dorian hesitated, then said, “Not to continue the lecture-”

“Andraste’s toenails, really?”

“-but all of this might have been avoided had you just told Varric what was going on when he came to you the first time.” 

“You think I don’t know that?!” Maxwell groaned. “Trust me, I’m aware. Almost every one of the inner circle has stopped by to tell me that.”

“So why didn’t you?” Dorian kept his tone gentle. “I know it’s a hard conversation to have, but-”

“I wanted one day where I wasn’t the asshole who sicced the big, bad blood mage on Cullen!” he snapped. “One fucking day!”

Taken aback, Dorian kept silent.

Maxwell took a deep breath. “I know I screwed up! But I don’t regret it, because it kept Cullen alive! And I know that most of the people lecturing me might do the same thing in my place, if it was someone they cared about! But no one will admit it, and they pretend I’m some kind of tyrant even though they would have done it too!” Quieter, sounding like the teenager he often still resembled, he added, “It’s not fair.”

It would have been crushingly easy to push, and the realization made Dorian shudder. He could almost hear it, the words he might choose. _ ‘None of them understand you like I do, Maxwell. None of them know what it’s like to be us. Power is hard to bear. I’m the only one you can trust.’ _

He could strike like an adder, right now, and the Inquisitor would be his pawn and only his. It would take managing, of course, and subtlety. But the rewards would be worth it. One of the most powerful figures in southern Thedas, the name on everyone’s lips, dancing to Dorian’s tune. If they had been in Tevinter, if Maxwell had been some up-and-coming magister, Dorian wouldn’t have hesitated.

But…

_ “Are you all right, Herald?” Dorian asked. The ruins of Redcliffe Castle groaned and shook around them, red lyrium pulsing through the walls like veins through skin. Up ahead, Cassandra Pentaghast and Leliana were clearing out a few remaining stragglers. Behind them, that apostate Solas was rummaging through the corpses, looking for any potions or salves that might keep them going until they reached Alexius in the throne room. _

_ The future was a shithole, and Dorian couldn’t wait to leave it behind. _

_ “Just winded.” Maxwell was leaning against the wall, staring through a gap in the stone at the sky. At the Breach slowly consuming the sky, more likely. “I’m fine. Not hurt.” _

_ “Are you sure?” Dorian put a hand on his shoulder. For a so-called messiah, the Herald of Andraste was a nervous and trembling thing. He was clearly more of a scholar than a fighter, although someone had taught him very precise control of lightning. “If you need a potion, or lyrium, Solas is looking for some.” _

_ “Solas threw up what was either red lyrium or blood, or both, earlier, when he thought no one was looking.” Maxwell’s voice was fragile. “Cassandra’s whole right side is shot through with those crystals. And Leliana…” _

_ He didn’t need to continue. Leliana was a horror. If Dorian wasn’t watching her move and speak, he’d have believed her to be a corpse. _

_ “It’s funny,” Maxwell continued, bleak and not looking away from the sky. “I was hoping that if we brought in the mages and closed the Breach, I could step back and people would stop looking at me like I was in charge.” He swallowed, the apple of his throat bobbing. “But seeing this, seeing what happens if this Elder One rises to power…” _

_ He finally turned to look at Dorian. There was a determined fire in his eyes that seemed to burn too hot for his skinny frame to contain. “I’m going to save them. All of them, everyone who needs us. If it’s my responsibility, then fine. I won’t hide from it anymore.” _

_ The determination flickered for a moment, and he added, “I can’t do it alone, though. I know you only came for Alexius, but...will you help me?” _

_ “Of course,” Dorian said, surprised to discover that he meant it with his whole heart. “Of course I’ll help you.” _

“When we first came to Skyhold, I told you that no one would thank you for your work,” Dorian said, rising from the chaise to stand by Maxwell. “I wasn’t just being glib. Part of being a leader, a _ good _ leader, is getting the blame for things that can’t possibly be your fault.” He reached out to squeeze Maxwell’s shoulder. “It means people hold you to a standard that they don’t hold themselves. It’s certainly not fair, but...it’s the nature of people, whether they are dwarves, elves, or human.”

“They can shove their higher standards up their arses,” Maxwell grumbled, taking a surreptitious swipe at his eyes.

Dorian chuckled and leaned a hip against the desk. “I know it’s tiresome, especially because they’re your friends. But even if it doesn’t feel like it in the moment, they are trying to help, trying to be good friends in their own way. When you see a friend doing something risky, something that could get him killed-”

“You tell him.” Maxwell sighed, nodding. “It’s not like I’m out in the courtyard slitting the throats of virgins, though! I’m not a monster!”

“But you are someone with a tremendous amount of power. Take it from someone else with a tremendous amount of power: a reminder that you’re beholden to other people can be good for you, even if it feels like swallowing a nail.”

Maxwell looked up at him, smiling slightly.

“What?” Dorian asked.

“Since when are you the responsible, sensible one?”

Dorian flattened a hand against his chest. “I won’t stand for those kinds of accusations, Inquisitor, no matter how fond I am of you.”

The rest of the conversation was blessedly free of moral temptations. Dorian recapped their misadventures on the mountain, concluding with, “And so while he’s not going to be swatting down bandits in the next few days, I think our commander should be back on his feet soon.”

“Good.” Maxwell nodded. “We can continue with the party then, but Dorian? Promise me you’ll make him stay in bed and actually heal?”

“Why don’t you ask me to lasso a kraken while I’m at it?” Dorian grumbled. But perhaps with the weight of the Inquisitor’s orders, Cullen might actually listen and take a break.

...or perhaps not. When Dorian returned to his quarters, he was greeted with the outrageous sight of Cullen sitting up in bed, surrounded by papers, a writing stand propped on his lap.

“How,” Dorian asked, hands on his hips, “did all of this get in here?”

“One of the runners knocked to see if I needed anything,” Cullen said calmly. If it wasn’t for the tiny smirk in the corner of his mouth, Dorian would have believed he wasn’t even aware of the absurdity of it. “After that, it was a simple matter to have my things brought here. I’ve already sorted most of the backlog from yesterday-”

“You’re supposed to be resting!”

“I’m _ supposed _ to be in my office or out on the training fields,” Cullen responded, scowling. “My duties don’t vanish just because I’m ill.”

“Cullen, do you know how much nonsense and minutiae a magister is forced to contend with every day?”

“In between the orgies and the ritual sacrifices, I assume?” Cullen held his quill between his teeth briefly as he flipped through the papers.

“Do you know how I and everyone else even marginally sane deal with it?” Dorian continued, not granting Cullen’s comment the dignity of his attention. “I _ delegate. _ I make my aides handle the things that don’t actually need my attention.”

“Those poor aides,” Cullen murmured, snide and refusing to put down his quill. “The rate of suicides must be tremendous.”

“Says the man who made a recruit cry not even two days ago!” Dorian snapped.

That earned him a glare and Cullen’s full attention. “She holds her shield like it’s some valuable she’s worried about dropping. Either I break her of that habit now, or she gets gutted in her first battle.” He sniffed. “Anyway, you promised me an explanation.”

“Oh, _ now _ you want to take a break.”

“Dorian!”

As fun as needling Cullen was, an explanation was long overdue. Dorian unlaced his boots and crawled into bed to prop himself on the headboard next to Cullen. While Cullen was fussing over the papers Dorian crushed with one knee, the mage very deftly tugged the writing stand and inkpot out of Cullen’s reach. “No distractions.”

“Fine.” Cullen crossed his arms. “Talk. Should we start with the part where you used blood magic on me?”

Dorian reached into the nightstand, where a familiar sheaf of papers lay neatly in a drawer. He handed them to Cullen. “These are all of the notes from the binding ritual. Take a look at them in time, and I will explain anything you have questions on. For now, I can summarize my...theory.”

Cullen took the papers but said nothing, simply studying Dorian with an intensity that could burn through rock.

“For all that this ritual starts with and further creates a power imbalance, it is meant to be at least somewhat voluntary for everyone involved.” Dorian folded his hands over his knee to keep himself from fidgeting with his rings. “As such, the willing surrender of the person being ‘reforged’ is needed.”

Cullen’s eyes were narrowed. “It’s a sex ritual.”

“Ha! Maxwell and I said the same thing, but Solas was quite insistent that it could be platonic as well.” Dorian tilted his head. _ “You _ decided it would take a sexual turn.”

“What?! No, I did not!” When Cullen blushed, it turned his cheeks red and the tips of his ears pink. It spread down his chest, and Dorian was briefly distracted by how much he wanted to touch.

“Oh yes, you did.” Unable to stop himself, he reached out towards Cullen. When Cullen jerked away, glaring, it made something furious churn in Dorian’s gut. “Is it really so hard to admit that you might have noticed my considerable charm and good looks?”

“I…” Cullen bit his lip, not meeting his eyes. The blush deepened, his skin burning hotter. “It wasn’t...appropriate.”

Dorian leaned toward him, eyes fixed on his pulse point. _ Claim and bite and suck and make him moan- _

“Stop!” Cullen’s hand on his chest brought him up short. “Stop it! I may have tolerated this last night-”

“Tolerated, that’s an interesting way to say that you came so hard it sprayed across your chin-”

Cullen’s nails dug into his collarbone. “-but you will either explain yourself _ now, _ or I’ll have you tossed into the cells until I’m sure you aren’t a danger to this keep.”

Dorian ground his teeth so hard that his jaw ached. Cullen was being perfectly reasonable, he knew that, but Dorian nearly trembled with the urge to bend him to his will. He was in control, though. He was.

“Of course.” Dorian took a deep breath and continued. “Anyway. Solas had warned me that I needed your submission to some degree. I--well, my original plan was to frighten you into it, to make you cooperate by scaring you with what I might do rather than what I was offering to do.”

“But you accidentally made that impossible,” Cullen sighed, understanding where Dorian was headed with this.

“Correct. My backup plan, as suggested by our favorite homeless apostate elf, was to alter the way you thought until you gave in.” Dorian tilted his chin up, daring Cullen to comment. 

The commander just listened, his eyes dark.

“And while that worked well enough to bind us and cure you, I worry…” Dorian took another deep breath. “I’ve been consulting those notes, everything Solas, Maxwell, and I were able to dig up on the ritual. Solas has also confirmed that I was affected by the ritual. In my own way.”

“In what way?” 

Dorian reached out, resting his fingers on Cullen’s wrist without grabbing. “You enjoy it when I take control, when I make you helpless.”

The blush flared on Cullen’s cheeks again, and he opened his mouth to argue.

Dorian stopped him before he could get started. “Maker’s sake, we were both there, we know what was said, could you not argue just this once?” When Cullen stayed grudgingly silent, Dorian continued, “I also enjoy it. Quite a bit. I thought...I thought it was simply my normal love of making handsome men scream my name-”

“Really?”

“-but when you went missing, it was like…” Dorian had to look away. “I’d have killed anyone who stood between us. Anyone. Nothing mattered besides ensuring that you were safe and with me.”

“You were using blood magic,” Cullen said, his voice hard. “You were probably close to possession without ever-”

“I know what attempts at possession feel like, Rutherford!” Dorian snapped. “I’ve dealt with them my entire life! This was different.” He twisted the ring on his thumb viciously, just to give his hands something to do. “This was...me, but not me. My thoughts, but stronger than they ought to have been.”

Cullen grunted abruptly, looking away from Dorian. Then he nodded, like something had been confirmed. “It all felt natural? Like it was...was right?”

“Exactly.”

“But you’re still…” Cullen gestured at him, “affected. It’s never been overwhelming for me when we weren’t, erm, intimate.”

This would be the difficult bit. With a grimace, Dorian said, “Yes. I...have an idea about that.”

The silence was painful. 

“I suspect the combination of--” Fuck, this was unpleasant. This was why Dorian never had serious conversations about anything personal. “--of watching another mage carry you off, and the indignity of you taking my magic has rather kicked all of those instincts into a frenzy.”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “I’m overwhelmed with sympathy.”

“Fuck you!” Dorian snapped, exploding off the bed to pace furiously. “You’re such a condescending prick! I thought you’d been fucking taken by the Red Templars, and all you can do is make snide comments and act self-righteous, as if-”

On the bed, Cullen was pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked exhausted, suddenly. “You’re right.”

That brought Dorian up short. “...what?”

“I asked you to be honest with me, even when it was unpleasant, and you’ve done that,” Cullen sighed. “I hate being vulnerable, but...so do you. I apologize.”

With a confused blink, Dorian felt the fight drain out of him. “Ah. Erm. Thank you, then.”

“Do you have an idea of how to fix this?” Cullen asked.

Dorian settled back onto the side of the bed so that they could speak face-to-face. “I do. The old texts that Solas has been translating aren’t just about performing the ritual. They mention cultural beliefs, past examples, things like that. Fragmented, but useful.” Damn it all, he was babbling. “The treatise I’m thinking of discusses something the ancient elves rather melodramatically called an ‘imbalance of the altered soul.’ Essentially, when this bond is put under great strain, it can cause the kind of...symptoms that I’m experiencing. A desire to re-establish the pecking order. Doing that should solve this problem.”

His eyebrows up near his hairline, Cullen had to clear his throat before asking, “And what would that involve?”

“Ironically, your current half-dead state might work in our favor, since it’s not like you’re going to be up and about. My idea: you stay here in bed with me for a few days. I boss you around, you let me, we have sex on every piece of furniture.” Dorian gave him a bright smile. “Genius, no?”

Unfortunately, Cullen looked troubled rather than intrigued. “I can’t ignore my duties to lie in bed and make love for days, we’re in the middle of a war.”

“Oh, so you’ll be on your feet and swinging a sword tomorrow, will you? Able to stay awake for more than two hours?”

With a grimace, Cullen looked down. “You have no idea if this will even work, and I have no idea how t-to act submissive or servile or whatever it is you want from me.”

“Just follow my lead, darling,” Dorian said, reaching out to touch Cullen’s wrist.

But Cullen yanked his wrist away. “I can’t. I’m sorry, but…” He looked miserable. “I can’t do this. I believe what you’re saying, I want to help, but I just...I can’t.”

He knew why, and Dorian’s voice was low when he said, “Because I used blood magic on you.”

Cullen nodded, his jaw locked so hard that it had to be painful. He refused to meet Dorian’s eyes. 

Dorian ground his fist against the coverlet. What could he possibly say? _ ‘Oh Cullen, don’t be silly! Why can’t you just get over all that nasty torture? After all, when I had blood magic used on me, I reacted perfectly calmly by committing patricide and becoming a blood mage so no one could ever touch me again!’ _ He had very little room to talk.

“But…” Cullen finally peered up from under his eyelashes. “I can think of a version of me that would be perfect.”

“You would be willing to do that? Now?” Dorian was baffled. “When you’re all agreeable and sweet, you’re at your most vulnerable.”

Cullen glanced away. “This is all for nothing if you’ve completely lost your mind by the time that stupid Summerday festival rolls around. And you’re right that I’m bed-bound. So yes.” He swallowed. “I’ll do it.”

Dorian couldn’t rightly name the feeling in the pit of his stomach, but it was anticipatory at the very least. “Well. I-if you’re sure, then no time like the present to start.”

With a resigned nodded, Cullen squared his shoulders and began the list of insults. “You’re a blood mage. You’re arrogant. You’re a danger to us all..”

Oh yes, definitely anticipation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised you all some more of Sweet Boy!Cullen, and he is on his way.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late update, everyone! My town was hit with some pretty big storms this week, and it left me without power for most of the weekend. I couldn't give this chapter the editing it needed without the delay, and whoo boy, did it need editing. (How many pairs of hands does Dorian have? At least four, when I'm not paying attention)
> 
> In apology, have some slutty, subby Cullen ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

It was a joy to slip away, and the thought made him feel guilty. But it was true. His head hurt, his bones hurt, his stomach was a churning mess whenever he looked at Dorian. The idea of being someone other than Cullen Rutherford was desperately appealing, and Cullen closed his eyes as he felt dizziness overtake him.

When he opened his eyes, everything was  _ wonderful. _

“My hero,” Cullen laughed, tugging on Dorian’s arm to pull him closer. Dorian obliged, stretching out beside Cullen on the bed and wrapping an arm around his hips. Cullen released a happy little sigh once they were settled. “What was that about ‘on every piece of furniture,’ again?”

Dorian was just studying him, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration. “Hmm, you even look more relaxed, less pained. Do you feel better?”

Cullen nodded, stretching his legs. “Yes. This is better than lyrium, even.”

Ah. He would never have said that out loud normally. Even in this state, he was taken aback.  _ Better not to think about it. _

But Dorian had that look in his eye, the spark of curiosity and focus that meant he wasn’t going to let the topic drop. “What does taking lyrium feel like, for a Templar?”

“What does it feel like for a mage?” It wasn’t technically refusing to answer the question if he distracted Dorian with a different question, after all.

“Enjoyable enough, I suppose.” Dorian shrugged. “Like a burst of energy and clarity, and it’s certainly saved me several times when I was being worn down. But nothing so strong that I’d say it’s addictive.” He ran a thumb across Cullen’s lips, casually possessive. “And for you?”

So much for redirecting. Cullen even gave Dorian’s thumb a tiny lick, hoping to distract him. 

Pupils dilated, Dorian murmured, “You  _ are  _ capable of being manipulative, in this state.”

Cullen licked the pad of Dorian’s thumb again. “Would you like to explore that further?”

“Perhaps.”

Cullen’s grin showed teeth.

“But first, you were telling me about lyrium.”

With a frustrated grunt, Cullen dropped his head against the pillow. “I’ve never talked about it with anyone who wasn’t a Templar or a Seeker. I don’t like to talk about it.”

“I’m aware.” Dorian’s hand snaked up to grip Cullen’s chin firmly. “But this isn’t about what you like, is it? It’s about you being a good boy and doing what you’re told.”

“I...I don’t know what you want me to say.” He never enjoyed not knowing what was expected of him. But like this, it was a particular agony that made him squirm uncomfortably. 

Exasperated, Dorian said, “Cullen. There is no right answer I’m looking for. I want you to tell me the truth, whatever it is, and that will please me.”

Well. When put like that…Cullen really did want to please him, so much.

“The first time, it’s awful,” he began, hesitant. Dorian simply listened, rubbing his thumb along Cullen’s chin absently. “When you take your vows, there’s a ceremony to give you your first philter. All your fellow Templars are there. They warn you ahead of time that it will hurt, but by then, you’ve been training to fight your whole life. It would be no different than a broken bone, or a torn muscle, you think.”

He looked away from Dorian, remembering the glass windows in the Chantry, how the candlelight flickered off of them. “It’s nothing like that. It feels...I don’t know the words for it. Overwhelming. Everything goes white, and there’s nothing but pain. When you wake, everyone is congratulating you, telling you how well you did, but all you can think is, ‘Maker, do I have to do that again every day?’ And you realize you aren’t the same any more, that something in you is just a little different in a way you can’t explain.”

“And that’s normal? Every Templar experiences that?” Dorian had such an interested look on his face. He was always hungry to know everything, and despite the circumstances, Cullen was glad to have the full force of his attention.

“All of us,” Cullen agreed. “But the dose the next day, the second dose…”

He sighed, curling himself closer to Dorian. “It’s bliss, but not like being drunk or drugged. It’s very calm, very peaceful, but very strong. Nothing is frightening, nothing is impossible. Everything is going to be all right. You feel warm and safe, and loved.”

Dorian stroked his fingers through Cullen’s hair. “How are any of you able to get anything done, in that case?”

“It wears off. After the first few weeks, the euphoria fades into a more manageable hum. It’s like developing a tolerance for drinking, I suppose. The feelings are still there, but in the background of your mind rather than blotting out everything else. It’s pleasant. The power is pleasant, this hum of something else that--” He waved a hand, frustrated. “I’m sorry. I’ve never been gifted with words the way Varric or Josephine are. I don’t know how to describe it.”

“You’re doing just fine.” Dorian scratched at his scalp gently with his fingernails. “I know the withdrawals from lyrium are tremendously unpleasant for mages who become addicted, and can sometimes be fatal. From what Maxwell says, though, all Templars die when cut off.”

“That’s the common wisdom,” Cullen sighed. “It feels like you’re dying, certainly.” Dorian didn’t stop him, and more words poured out. “The first few days without, you feel tired, irritable, achey. It’s harder to use your abilities. Two weeks out, it’s as if you’re sick constantly. Always cold, always with a headache. A month…”

Tears gathered in his eyes, unbidden, and Cullen grimaced. With a beseeching look, he shook his head at Dorian.

Dorian pulled Cullen against him more tightly, until Cullen was breathing in nothing but the scent of his skin and his silks. One hand cupped the back of his head, fingers tangling in the curls forming there. “Finish, sweetling. Tell me what you’re doing to yourself.”

Having the command made it easier, but Cullen’s voice was strained as he said, “At a month, it’s torment. You can’t keep anything but the blandest broth down, but your body is eating itself. You’re thirsty, desperately so, but water seems almost repulsive, the texture all wrong. Everything hurts. Sleep is impossible. _ Everything _ is impossible. All I can think about is lyrium and-”

Cullen swallowed sharply, gripping Dorian so tightly that it had to hurt. With a watery laugh, he added, “Needless to say, most Templars do not last long past that point.”

“You have.” 

It was a relief to talk about  _ anything _ that wasn’t his memories of lying on the floor of his quarters, quietly hoping that someone would just force him to take lyrium and end the pain. It allowed the warm, floating softness to creep back into his mind. “It was a common source of discussion among many of the officers. Was it losing lyrium that killed former Templars, or was it the difficulty of living through the withdrawals? Cassandra said the Seekers wondered about it as well, given that their powers don’t come from lyrium. When she recruited me, the idea of testing it turned into something real.”

“I’d say I was surprised that Cassandra let you put yourself at risk this way, but you stoic warrior types do love your self-sacrifice.”

Thinking of Cassandra made the happiness come back faster, buoyed by Cullen’s affection. “She’d have you believe she’s stoic, but our Seeker has never met a love story she wasn’t enraptured by.”

“Love stories?” Dorian laughed, delighted and confused.  _ “Cassandra Pentaghast _ likes love stories?”

Cullen smiled against Dorian’s throat. “Varric’s love stories, particularly.”

Dorian actually pulled back to stare at him. “Varric writes love stories?!” 

“Mm-hm. Bodice-ripping, mistaken identities, villainous ex-fiances, it’s all there.” Cullen chuckled. “It’s not to my taste. I had to stop reading the book Cassandra loaned me when the guardsman who was writing love poetry on his best friend’s behalf realized that he was also in love with the heroine. But Cassandra assures me the series has a small but passionate following.”

“I feel like everything I believed has been turned on its head,” Dorian said, blinking in amazement.

Smiling, Cullen reached up to brush a loose strand of Dorian’s hair away from his forehead. “Did it help?”

“Hmm?”

“Making me talk about the lyrium even though I didn’t want to,” Cullen explained. “Did it help you with the ritual’s effects?”

Dorian’s eyes narrowed and his smile faded, and Cullen worried that he had overstepped. The mage was prickly about potential weaknesses even under ideal circumstances, and this was all far from ideal. 

But then Dorian smirked, his expression pleased. “Even like this, you’re still very sharp. It’s fascinating.”

His heart swelled, warmth flooding through him. “We can experiment more, if you’d like to. Since I might be like this for a while.”

That made Dorian chuckle, and he leaned forward to kiss Cullen on the forehead. “Perhaps later. For now, I want you to get more rest, the way you should have been.”

“So demanding,” Cullen faux-complained, settling into the blankets. More sleep did sound lovely. Even in this altered state, the weariness in his bones was never truly gone. His Templar abilities grew more difficult to use by the day.

The thought scattered almost immediately, too upsetting to be allowed. It left him smiling sleepily at Dorian. “Don’t leave?”

“I could be convinced to lay in bed all day, I suppose.” He tucked the blanket a bit tighter around Cullen’s shoulders. “Rest.”

And Cullen did, as ordered.

When he woke again, it was to Dorian shaking his shoulder gently. At least a few hours had passed; many of the candles had burned down to nubs and some had been swapped out entirely. Dorian had changed into a loose red dressing gown, and there were a few stacks of paper on the table closest to him that he was clearly sorting through.

“Not that you aren’t very cute, all curled up, but I thought you might want to eat today.” Dorian’s hand lingered on his shoulder, fingers absently tracing patterns.

“I am not cute,” Cullen protested, blinking up at Dorian when the mage took him by the chin.

“You’re cute if I tell you to be,” Dorian said, imperious and teasing all at once.

It made Cullen laugh. “Fine, but I should warn you that I don’t know the first thing about being cute. It was never really a skill I needed.”

Dorian leaned in, kissing him with surprising intensity. Against Cullen’s lips, he asked, “Is your head still full of bubbles?” 

“The bubbliest.” 

“Excellent.” He nipped at Cullen’s lower lip and then pulled back entirely, gesturing to the tray sitting on the bedside table. “I had them bring some food for you. You mentioned that you can’t keep down anything rich, so let me know if this is too much. Although I’m not sure how much blander food can be without actually becoming paste.”

A bowl of porridge steamed on the tray, a few green apple slices bobbing in it. Cullen picked it up, relishing the warmth of the bowl against his perpetually cold hands. “No, this is perfect. It’s usually porridge for breakfast and some kind of bone broth for my other meals, on days when the withdrawals are very hard.”

“Oh! Wait just a moment.” Dorian rolled off the bed and went to shelves along one wall. Amidst what looked like potion ingredients, there was a small, locked iron box. He unlocked it and withdrew a small glass vial. “Here, let me see that bowl.”

“Please don’t use me for any experiments,” Cullen said, holding the bowl out obediently. He sniffed at the light brown powder that Dorian sprinkled across the top of his porridge, and his eyes widened at the scent. “Cinnamon?” 

“It’s much easier to get in Tevinter, and I was warned you southerners have to practically pay your firstborn children for it.” He grinned. “I won’t suffer bland food like some sort of peasant.”

Cullen sniffed at it again, enjoying the smell. Cinnamon was a rarity in any of the southern countries and Cullen had never even tasted it in his little home village. The Chantry in Ferelden had served it to the Templars on holy days, baked into roasts and desserts. It had been a bit easier for the cooks in the Gallows to acquire, since Kirkwall was further north and a trading port, but it was still reserved as a special treat for holidays and grand occasions. The nobles in Hightown had been wildly fond of it; the spice merchants in the market might as well have been trading in lyrium, for all the coin they brought in. 

The idea of sprinkling it on an unremarkable bowl of porridge seemed downright decadent. Cullen looked at Dorian from under his eyelashes. “You spoil me.”

Dorian smirked. “Anything for my sweet little pet.”

Cinnamon improved the porridge to an astonishing degree, and Cullen wolfed it down with the delicacy of a starving man. When he was finished, his stomach pleasantly full, he looked up at the box where Dorian stored the cinnamon. “What else do you have in there?”

“Delicious wonders that I will only share if you’re very good,” Dorian said, not looking up from the notes he was flicking through. He sat on the bed next to Cullen, propped against the headboard with his legs stretched out. Their shoulders brushed constantly, and this was probably not a coincidence.

A decent meal had done wonders for his energy levels, and Cullen straddled Dorian’s lap with a grin. “I’m being very good right now. What do I get?”

Maker, the way Dorian looked at him. The hunger and the focus in his grey eyes made Cullen feel wonderfully dizzy.

“Well, I suppose that depends,” Dorian said, reaching up to rest his thumb against Cullen’s lower lip. “Would you be willing to answer a few questions for me? Questions that your more stodgy, rational self won’t answer?”

“Oh, yes,” Cullen laughed, wriggling on Dorian’s lap. The idea felt  _ naughty, _ like it was a secret that he wasn’t meant to be talking about.

“Good boy,” Dorian purred, his grin widening as Cullen sighed with pleasure. “You like that so much, don’t you? Being told how lovely and obedient you are.”

“Very much.” Cullen wrapped his lips around the tip of Dorian’s thumb, suckling at it. 

“And you like when I touch you?” Dorian slid his thumb deeper, his free hand meandering up Cullen’s thigh. “When I ravish you?”

Cullen just moaned around Dorian’s thumb, rocking back and forth slightly on his lap. 

“Then why,” he tugged his thumb out of Cullen’s mouth and tapped him on the nose, like he was scolding a dog, “do you occasionally throw a fit and act like you can’t stand the sight of me?”

Pouting, Cullen tried to recapture Dorian’s thumb. When thwarted, he sighed and said, “A few reasons, all of them working against me. Instincts, for one.”

“Instincts?”

Cullen sat back slightly, giving another wriggle to keep Dorian paying attention. Based on the growing hardness he could feel against his thigh, it was working. “It’s like..when an animal bites you? And even later, when it’s calmer and you’re touching it again, you still remember that bite in the back of your mind. My instincts say you’ll bite, like the other mages bit.”

“Interesting words, from a man who wanted to fuck me wearing the lovely clothes I paid for.” Dorian settled his hand on the curve of Cullen’s ass, squeezing down. “You can see why I might be confused.”

Cullen arched back against Dorian’s hand, wanting a firmer squeeze. When Dorian rewarded him with one, kneading the muscle, Cullen moaned out, “I-I’m the commander, I was a Templar, I’m not supposed to like it wh-when you make me beg.”

The spank was a surprise, a pleasant sting that made Cullen’s nipples pebble. He moaned, the sound ending in a yelp as Dorian slapped the other cheek. Getting hard was a struggle when the withdrawals were wringing him dry, but his cock was making a valiant effort.

“Oh, he likes that,” Dorian laughed, eyeing Cullen like he might happily swallow him whole. “So our big, strong Commander likes to submit and doesn’t like to admit it?”

“Ye-ess!” Cullen’s voice broke as Dorian leaned forward to mouth at his nipple, biting down just enough to threaten. “Yes, yes, oh, it’s easier when you make me, when--ah, ah, please--when the magic means I can just give in.”

“I have a lovely idea, sweet boy,” Dorian murmured, nipping at Cullen’s collarbone. “Why don’t you tell me what you like the best? And then later, when you’re balking and whining and very serious, I can repeat it all back to you.”

“You’re a very bad man,” Cullen ‘scolded’, wrapping his arms around Dorian’s shoulders to pull him closer. Below him, he could feel that Dorian was almost completely hard. He’d done that, with just his words and his artless squirming. “Can I have a treat, if I do?”

“What treat would you like?” Dorian’s pupils were blown wide, the grey of his irises nearly gone.

Cullen moved back, tugging at Dorian’s waist to make him stretch out a bit more on the bed. Once he was positioned the way Cullen wanted, he leaned in and kissed Dorian’s pulse point lightly.

“I like when you take away all my strength,” Cullen murmured. Dorian’s skin tasted clean and salty beneath his lips, and so warm. He moved down Dorian’s chest as he spoke. “Everyone else who did that made it hurt, but you make me feel so good. Better than I’ve ever felt.”

“Go on.” Dorian’s voice was rough, like he couldn’t quite maintain his normal, controlled purr.

“I like when you tell me how good I am, how pretty,” Cullen breathed against Dorian’s chest. Maker, he could never have admitted this normally; the mere thought of saying the words out loud would have made him blush madly. He sucked at Dorian’s nipple, delighting in how it tightened under his lips. “I love when you make me feel like your pampered little pet.”

“You  _ are _ my little pet,” Dorian growled, curling his fingers in Cullen’s hair. “I don’t even need to collar you for everyone to see it.”

Rubbing his cheek against the ridges of Dorian’s abdominals, Cullen could only moan, “I love that you’re all over me, all the time.”

“Fuck!” Dorian hissed, and even through the fabric of his dressing gown, Cullen could see his cock twitch.

“And I love when you make me feel just a little bit ashamed.” Cullen tugged the tie holding the dressing gown closed, baring Dorian completely. Even his cock was beautiful, long and weighty and arching up proudly. “When you remind me that I shouldn’t love being fucked by you, that good Templars shouldn’t want to suck a magister’s cock so much.”

“With those lips, you’re just lucky I’m the first magister to have scooped you up.” Dorian tugged at his hair, a pleasant pull. “Would you like your treat now, Commander?”

“Yes,” Cullen moaned, licking his lips at the surge of clear pre-come oozing from the tip of Dorian’s cock. “Please?”

“Show me how good you are,” Dorian ordered, and Cullen needed no further prompting.

It had been years since he’d done this, the chaos of Kirkwall leaving little time for anything besides survival. The last man he’d sucked, actually, had been Raleigh Samson, and the irony of it all made Cullen smile around the tip of Dorian’s cock. He gagged a little, swallowing several times to try and bring Dorian deeper into him. 

“Don’t choke yourself,” Dorian breathed, his fingers curled tight in the bedsheets. 

Pulling off just long enough to murmur, “But I  _ want _ to,” Cullen dove back into his task with a gusto. He’d always been an eager student, and learning what made Dorian shiver was so very rewarding. Dragging his tongue along the vein on the underside made the mage whine. Swallowing around him made Dorian buck. And rolling his stones in one hand actually made Dorian arch up, his head falling back to bare the lovely expanse of his throat.

Oh, Cullen liked this. He liked this very much. 

He was making a mess, but he had never cared less. He could only swallow Dorian about halfway down, drool and precome leaking out of his mouth and slicking the length of his cock. When Dorian’s hips began bucking, Cullen wrapped a hand around the base of the mage’s length to keep it from going too deep. With practice, Cullen would be able to swallow him entirely, he was sure of it.

“I’m close,” Dorian warned, his voice shaky and his thighs trembling.

Cullen pulled back just long enough to rasp, “I want to taste you,” and then dove back on. The words made Dorian moan like he’d been punched, and the movement of his hips was jerky and uncoordinated. He came only a few seconds later, gasping something in Tevene as he spilled down Cullen’s throat. The angle meant that much of his seed dripped past Cullen’s lips before he could swallow it all, spilling across Cullen’s chin and onto Dorian’s thighs.

It was  _ wonderful. _

In the aftermath, Dorian watched him with a slightly woozy expression. Cullen made a show of licking his lips, chin, and fingers clean, moaning a little for good measure.

“You’re a menace,” Dorian laughed, still panting slightly.

“Next time, I’ll take you deeper,” Cullen promised, and Dorian’s sharp, desperate inhale was really its own reward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sweet Boy!Cullen is also a very, very naughty boy.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone for being so patient with me. For anyone who didn't check my Tumblr, I've been sick the past week and barely able to write coherently, let alone well, hence the late update. In other news, I'm going to try posting new updates on Mondays rather than Sundays, since my weekend schedule looks very different now thanks to COVID Hell.
> 
> Hopefully this update is worth the wait!

Dorian learned three things over the next two days.

The first was that he was a genius, whose ideas were handed down from the Maker Himself. It was absolute bliss to have Cullen wrapped around him like a limpet, staring up with adoration. The sensation was nearly physical, like someone had rubbed aloe on a burn. By the time night fell, he felt the strange, sharp edges of his own emotions settling back into their normal rhythms.

Having Cullen on hand at all times helped. Also enormously helpful was the fact that Cullen melted against him, responsive and eager. Each time that he grabbed Cullen and pressed teeth into his throat or sucked his fingers, the commander groaned encouragement and curled himself that much closer. Dorian drank kisses from him like an exile in the desert would drink water. He mapped out every inch of him, from the scars that had been carved into his flesh to the shimmering lines of the Fade that Dorian had accidentally slipped under his skin. Throughout it all, Cullen just arched into the touches like a cat being stroked.

Dorian wasn’t generally a fan of cohabitation. Even when he was a child, he had been very particular about his space. As a toddler, he’d once thrown a wooden block so hard that it left an actual scar on the forehead of the poor slave who’d been tasked with bringing him down for dinner. While he only threw things for dramatic effect now, and never at the help, he still disliked having people in his quarters for longer than necessary. It was too intimate, and it disrupted his routines. 

It was a surprise, then, that he enjoyed having Cullen practically on top of him for a solid two days. Further proof that the ritual was affecting him in unexpected ways. The only reason it all worked out so well was likely that Cullen was inhumanly cuddly and agreeable the entire time.

(Dorian was privately willing to concede that some of Cullen’s ideas might also be handed down from the Maker, but he certainly wasn’t going to tell him that. There’d be no living with him.)

The second thing he learned was that orgasm did not actually snap Cullen out of his state of euphoria. While Cullen was still too weary to fuck properly, he was not too weary to wrap his thighs around Dorian’s head and whine for his mouth. In the aftermath, as Dorian licked his fingers clean, he waited for Cullen to come up spitting and snarling. Instead, he remained a boneless heap on the bed, panting softly.

“Commander?”

“Mmm?” Cullen opened his eyes, his expression sleepy and fond.

“Are you still the most agreeable version of yourself?”

“I believe so,” Cullen murmured, reaching out to cup Dorian’s chin gently. 

“Well, that’s informative to know.” Dorian pressed a kiss against his inner thigh. “And buys me time before you try to take my head off.”

Cullen laughed and stroked Dorian’s chin with his knuckles. “This head? Too perfect to remove. It’s good to know, though. It means you can’t leave me alone like this. If Hawke and Varric had seen me like this, it would have confirmed everything they feared.”

Dorian stretched out next to Cullen, luxuriating in having the other man pressed against him. “You’ve said there was nearly an epidemic of blood magic in Kirkwall?”

Cullen frowned, but nodded and answered, “The Veil was terribly thin there. Demons and spirits flocked to the region like animals around a watering hole.”

“It seems like the worst possible place for you to have been sent, all things considered.” Dorian brushed a curl of blonde hair away from Cullen’s forehead.

“It wasn’t ideal,” Cullen sighed. “But Kirkwall was one of the most populous Marcher cities, and that was before the waves of refugees. Staffing the Gallows required warm bodies, and I couldn’t return to the Ferelden tower.” He looked to the side. “For better or worse, Kirkwall made me who I am.”

Dorian pulled him closer, tucking Cullen’s head against his shoulder. “Will you tell me about it? When you’re back to normal?” He stroked a hand through Cullen’s loose curls. “I know you’re happy now. I’d hate to interrupt it.”

Cullen’s gaze was warm, adoring. “Anything for you.”

The third and final thing Dorian learned was that Cullen really did have an astonishing amount of people coming to bother him. By mid-afternoon of the second day, Dorian had fended off four runners, Josephine, two lieutenants, Varric Tethras, and three separate minions sent by the quartermaster. And that was just the people who'd managed to discover that Cullen was currently in Dorian’s room. There was a whole group of other would-be pests lingering around Cullen’s tower, looking confused and lost without him there to bark orders. 

Dorian failed to fend off Cassandra, though. She spotted him getting lunch and followed him back to his quarters, barging past him and into the room like a woman-shaped battering ram. Fortunately, Cullen was wearing clothing, sitting cross-legged against the headboard and looking generally un-ravished. 

“Are you well?” She hovered over him like she was checking for injury. She shot a glare that could have killed over her shoulder at Dorian. “No one has seen you for days. Varric says Dorian isn’t  _ letting _ anyone see you.” 

“Oh, so Varric is running and tattling to you now?” Dorian snorted. “How the tides have turned.”

“I’m fine, Cassandra,” Cullen insisted. He smiled up at her. “I promise. I’ve been recovering, Dorian is making me rest.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re different.”

Cullen laughed. “There’s no fooling you, is there? I  _ promise _ , I’m all right. It’s a side effect of the ritual, nothing more. I’ll be back to normal by tomorrow.”

She was silent, staring down at him intently.

Entirely uncowed, Cullen added, “If I’m not, I promise you can punch Dorian.”

“I beg your pardon?!”

That was enough to make her crack a smile. “Very well, I will leave you be. But we are discussing this tomorrow, Cullen.”

“You can catch me up on everything I’ve missed,” Cullen agreed. 

Dorian waited until Cassandra had safely left the room before saying, “She does not have permission to punch me. She hits harder than you.”

Cullen didn’t argue, just laughed against and sat back on his hands. “Well, this is probably for the best. I’ll have to return to the real world eventually.”

“The real world?” 

Shrugging, Cullen reached out to toy with the flared collar of Dorian’s coat. He was very handsy when he was like this. “Return to the real world, the work, my senses, however you’d like to phrase it. It’s lovely, to be free of worry.” His smile was tinged with an undeniable sadness. “But it’s not me.”

That level of self-sacrificial nonsense made him push Cullen back against the bed, kissing him fiercely. Against Cullen’s lips, he murmured, “I would keep you this way forever, if you wanted me to. I could come up with some excuse, I’m sure of it.”

Cullen gazed up at him, the very picture of a man in love. “I know. But I’m no use to the Inquisition this way, Dorian. It’s just the truth.”

Dorian ran his fingers through Cullen’s hair, wondering idly how it would look if it was long enough to wrap around his fist. “‘Useless’ seems harsh. I’ve had to make you stop working several times.”

That provoked a peal of laughter. “I wish I could let you experience this, you would understand right away.” Eyes half-lidded, Cullen leaned against Dorian’s touch. “The work I’ve been focusing on requires little thought on my part, and I know the forms will pass through many hands besides mine. But anything that requires strategy…I’m too easily distracted by thoughts of you.”

Maker, Cullen just  _ said _ things like that. It took Dorian’s breath away every time. He sighed against Cullen’s cheek, feeling something strangely like despair. How was he supposed to be cold and remote in the face of this? In the heat of his anger, when he’d given Cullen the orders that would make him sweet and silly, Dorian had assumed it would make him easier to control. Instead, he found himself hit with wave after wave of unconditional affection, wearing him down as surely as the ocean wearing down a cliff. 

It was wonderful. It was  _ horrible. _

“Don’t frown,” Cullen murmured, tracing the shape of Dorian’s lips. “Why are you upset?”

_ Because tender emotions are deadly _ , Dorian wanted to answer. Instead, he sat back on his heels, drawing some comfort from the warm, solid mass of Cullen beneath him. “Before I put you under, you were...very upset with me for using blood magic on you. I worry that when you’re clear-headed, you’ll feel like this was disturbingly similar to whatever was done to you. In the past.”

Cullen opened and closed his mouth a few times, clearly struggling for words. With a frustrated grunt, he thumped his head back against the sheets. “It’s...I can’t explain it right now. I’m sorry.” He tapped his own forehead. “It’s too complicated, and my thoughts just glance off of it. I can try, if you-”

“No,” Dorian said, shaking his head. “I’ll let you enjoy your holiday from reality a little longer. When should I bring you back?”

“Let’s try it in the Fade!” Cullen said, going from muted to excited remarkably quickly. “We haven’t seen the ritual’s effects there, and it makes me feel safe.”

Dorian blinked at him, unable to keep his voice steady. “Safe?”

Cullen smirked and tugged at the collar of Dorian’s robe. “Very safe. Let me show you how appreciative I am. We still have a few hours left.”

For all that Cullen’s distractions were enjoyable, Dorian still ‘awoke’ in the Fade feeling anxious. This would be a test of his control on every level. He could still remember the reality-shattering burst of emotions during the ritual, when Cullen had unleashed a parade of horrors after his sense of fear was returned to him. This wouldn’t be quite as bad, surely? 

It would be fine. He was Dorian of House Pavus, scion of a hundred generations of magic. He spent his days in the Magisterium dealing with men and women who killed as casually and remorselessly as someone might smash a fly. Whatever venom Cullen began spitting after nearly three days of pure adoration, it would be far from the worst thing Dorian ever heard.

It would be  _ fine _ .

Cullen was in his usual spot, sitting up amidst the furs and blinking sleepily in the sunlight. He beamed when he saw Dorian. “There you are.”

“Are you sure you want to proceed? I can always reverse things tomorrow, if you’d prefer another night of peace,” Dorian offered, taking a seat next to him. 

“No, it’s like taking a dirty bandage off.” Cullen gave a resolute nod. “Best to rip it away in one motion and be finished with it.”

“Right,” Dorian said crisply, holding out a hand. “Your arm, please.”

Cullen laid his wrist in the palm of Dorian’s hand, giving him a final, sweet smile. “When you’re ready.”

Some greater degree of preparation or ritual would have been a comfort. It was painfully easy instead. His magic surged gently, like a trickle of water down his arm and into Cullen’s tattoo. The lines of it flared, bright and golden, and he watched with resignation as Cullen stiffened suddenly.

Around them, the world shuddered violently, an earthquake through reality as Cullen’s emotions flooded the Fade. Dorian sucked in a breath and bore down with his will, the same as he would when summoning a demon or forcing ice through rock. 

_ ‘The first rule of magic, my son, is that you must always be in control of it.’ _ His father’s voice, hands that had seemed impossibly big and strong guiding him through the earliest casting stances when he’d come into his magic at the tender age of 6. 

No.  _ No _ , the very last thing he needed right now was memories of his father. Dorian gritted his teeth and focused on creating steady walls, a solid floor, an island of order in the middle of the churning, chaotic sea that was the Fade. While the torrent of Cullen’s feelings (a thousand sharp, raw edges of  _ shame _ ) still came, the world around them was stable and solid once more.

“Well, hello to y…” Dorian trailed off, fascinated as he opened his eyes to see that the lines of the tattoo were still glowing. 

Cullen stared at it curiously, turning his arm this way and that to examine it from all angles. His expression was troubled, but there was no denying the interest in his gaze. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Dorian asked lightly. “Like everything I create.”

Cullen didn’t answer, leaning back slightly to stare down at his own torso.

“This is the first time you’ve properly seen it, yes?” Dorian continued, not liking the lack of any response.

“No.” Cullen’s voice was flat. “I could see it when you used blood magic on me.”

Well. That rather killed the mood.

“Good to see you’re as charming and personable as ever.” The merriment sounded forced even to Dorian’s ears, but he didn’t know what else to do. “While you scowl at the wall, I’ll just go-”

Cullen’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, the grip surprisingly tight. “Wait. Just...wait.”

His expression was stern, bordering on angry, but something about the set of his mouth was downright miserable. Cautious, Dorian settled back down beside him, watching him intently.

“Do you feel better?” Cullen’s voice was clipped. He wasn’t looking at Dorian, and his cheeks burned red. Everything in his posture screamed that he wanted to be alone, but his grip on Dorian’s wrist never wavered. “The side effects, are they manageable?”

The urge to be glib was immediate. But Cullen’s hand trembled slightly, the movement just perceptible against Dorian’s skin. So he cupped his free hand over Cullen’s and said, “Yes, it’s helped very much. I...I want to thank you again. You have given me my control back, and I know it wasn’t easy.”

Cullen let out a bark of laughter, mirthless and strained. “It was the easiest thing in the world. Coming back from it is the hard part.”

“Is there...can I help in some way?” Maker, it was humiliating, to hold this part of himself out like a child expecting praise for an art project.

Cullen turned to look fully at him, his jaw clenched so tightly that it had to be painful. His expression was impossible to read, nothing but intensity. And  _ still  _ the dips and whorls of his tattoo were glowing slightly, fading with all the brilliance of a sunset. He was beautiful, unfairly so. 

“You’ve asked much of me,” Cullen finally said, his voice sharp. “And every day, you ask more. You use blood magic on me, and then spend days doting on me, and I’m just supposed to--”

He shook his head, the motion jerky. There were tears in his eyes, and Dorian honestly wasn’t sure which emotion had provoked them.

Dorian was good at placating, at saying soothing words that meant nothing. And yet when he actually wanted to sincerely calm someone, he felt like a clumsy child. “I-I know that this isn’t fair, that’s it’s unbalanced, but-” 

“I feel like you’ve cut me open and you have your fingers in my fucking brain!” Cullen snapped. “You have all of me, and I have nothing of you!”

Dorian stared at him for a tense, silent moment. All he could think of was Cullen gazing up at him, the corners of his eyes crinkled in fondness. _ “I’m too easily distracted by thoughts of you,” _ the most vulnerable underbelly imaginable. 

“There is one secret I could offer, tit for tat,” and Maker damn it all, his voice was choking. “It is...it is in regards to a question you’ve asked before.” 

Cullen narrowed his eyes, curious despite himself. “Oh?”

Dorian had to move, to do this  _ now _ or he would never do it at all. He tugged his wrist out of Cullen’s grasp and strode to the door across the room. With a deep breath, he flattened his hands against it and focused his attention on the Fade beyond. Motion, purpose, sheer will; hopefully it would be enough to stop the emotions from catching up with him and wrenching his hard-won control away. 

It came together terribly easily, like some part of him had been waiting all this time to build that grim scene. It probably helped that everything was so familiar, the details of the family mansion as easy to recall as a childhood lullaby. It would be a frozen moment, he decided. That would have to be enough for Cullen. Seeing his father walk and talk would send Dorian’s control straight to the Void.

He stepped back from the door, not looking at Cullen. “This way.”

Cullen came to his side cautiously, warily. “What are you showing me?”

Dorian could feel his throat bob as he swallowed.  _ Posture straight, eyes forward, expression calm. _ His mother always said that was the key to being in public while caught in the grips of some terrible emotion. That would be enough to get him through this. Hopefully. “The night my father died.”

He waited for questions, for Cullen to say something thoughtless. But the other man just nodded. “Lead the way.”

The door swung open, and the hallway beyond was the tasteful finery of the Pavus family manor. 

“My great-great-great grandmother based the architecture on what was then the Archon’s palace.” He said the words reflexively, retreating to the safety of history and trying not to stare at the bronze chandelier he’d once swung from in a fit of youthful defiance. “That Archon was fond of light woods, narrow windows, Orlesian glass, and columns. For a few generations, the house was considered dreadfully out of date, but Storm Age throwbacks have recently become trendy once more. We held-”

“Dorian.” None of the candles or lanterns had been lit that night, and the wide hallway was shrouded in darkness. Cullen’s face would have been hard to read, except he was standing very close to him. “Breathe.”

When had his back gone so rigid? When had his breath started coming so quickly? He blinked at Cullen, trying not to get vertigo from the sight of the Inquisition’s commander standing in his childhood home. “I am.”

“Breathe more slowly, then.” Cautious, like he was dealing with a nervous donkey, Cullen reached out and rested a hand on Dorian’s shoulder. 

The weight of it was actually startling, something real and steady in the middle of a nightmare from the past. He swallowed again and took a few slower breaths. “This is one of my family’s estates.”

“In Qarinus.” Cullen’s pronunciation was slightly off, which did absolutely nothing to make it less unsettling to hear him saying the city’s name aloud. 

Dorian felt frighteningly disconnected from the flow of time, unsure for a moment  _ when _ he was. “Yes. I assume you know the background of what brought me here?”

“The broad strokes, yes.” It was strange. Cullen no longer looked like he was on the verge of a breakdown. He was cautious, certainly, but also clear-eyed and attentive. Having a mission helped to center him, apparently.

_ Well, at least one of us is fucking calm, _ Dorian thought, just slightly hysterical.

“My parents were insistent that I was finally going to settle down, marry some equally disinterested girl, and begin siring lots of little Pavuses. I was insistent that I would not. We remained at a stalemate for months, until…”

His eyes drifted down the hall, to the broad marble sweep of the stairs. Tucked off to the side was a small servant staircase leading to the sub-levels, to the dark room where-

Cullen followed his gaze, and the hand on Dorian’s shoulder moved up slightly to squeeze the back of his neck. “I’m ready when you are.”

Had the stairs always been this dark? Had they always been so narrow, so pitched? It had to be his own pain distorting the Fade, making his memories into darker, more terrible reflections of what had really happened. If he fell on these stairs and broke his neck, maybe that would-

“I’m here,” Cullen murmured behind him, soft but steady. “Watch your feet. I’m right behind you.”

Dorian was not proud of how reassuring he found those words. 

In the real manor, the landing of the servant staircase led to a dusty storage area full of casks of average wine and portraits of family members who were not well-liked by the current generation. Dorian had actually put his foot through great-great-great-great uncle Octavias when they’d dragged him through the room. But in the Fade, it was nothing but empty blackness. The only feature was the door at the end of the room, blood red light pouring out from the crack under it.

_ Well done, self, _ Dorian thought.  _ Very melodramatic. _

“Dorian, are you-”

But he would not stop, would not hesitate. He didn’t want to see what laid in the room beyond, and yet...he did. It had been the point in his life where everything spiraled so spectacularly out of control, and he’d been swimming through the ashes ever since. Before he could let his doubts stop him, Dorian wrenched the door open as hard as he could.

The scene beyond was both horrible and strangely mundane. There was the slightly younger version of himself, tied to a table and clearly mid-sob. There was his father standing over him, a knife just slicing through the tender skin of his inner elbow to release a crimson stream. It was blood magic, unmistakable, a dark and terrible thing. And yet, looking at it from the perspective of  _ anyone _ but the terrified man on the table, all the boring details suddenly became obvious.

Halward looked exhausted and grief-stricken underneath his grim determination. The Dorian on the table was a blotchy mess, drooling around the makeshift gag as he struggled. Underneath the sinister glyphs on the floor and walls, the entire room was badly in need of a good cleaning. It was just a room. His father, just a man. And Dorian, just a fool about the set his entire life on fire.

Behind him, Cullen gasped audibly. “That’s...oh, Dorian. That’s your--your father, isn’t he?”

“He had the slaves wake me in the middle of the night and drag me downstairs.” His voice was strangely monotone. “He reckoned that the problem was my attraction to men, you see. So he dug up an old ritual that was supposed to fix all that.”

Cullen did not venture past Dorian’s side, clearly hesitant to enter the room any more than he had to. He never took his hand off Dorian’s back. “No one knew he was a blood mage.”

“He  _ wasn’t,” _ and what should have been a bitter laugh came out as a choked sob. “He spent my entire childhood telling me that a real man didn’t hurt other people for power, that a real man used his words instead of brute force to change the world. And then when he became desperate, he hurt me instead.”

“What happened?” Cullen’s voice was soft, a lifeline.

“I rubbed my wrists raw.” If he looked closely, he could see ropeburns starting to form on the younger Dorian’s skin already. A few more good yanks, and the blood would start to flow. “I was furious, and frightened, and all I could think was that nothing mattered and…”

“That’s when you used blood magic for the first time.” Cullen’s voice was expressing some emotion, doubtlessly something important. But the only place Dorian could look was Halward’s face, still full of life and purpose. His father, oh Maker, he missed him so much-

“I killed him,” Dorian whispered. “I killed my own father.”

Suddenly, he was being moved, his face pressed against Cullen’s shoulder as the other man embraced him tightly. 

“Get us out of here,” Cullen ordered, in his ‘Commander’ voice. “Back to the real world, now.”

With a heaving sound, Dorian did just that, finally releasing the iron grip that had kept them in the Fade even as he was falling apart. When he opened his eyes to see his bedroom in Skyhold, he could have sobbed with relief.

He  _ was _ sobbing, he realized dimly. His face was wet, and his shoulders were shaking from it. When had that happened? As Cullen pulled him into a tight hug, all Dorian could think was that his face must be nearly as blotchy as the Dorian from his memories. 

Cullen was warm and steady, though. His hands were always cold, but the expanse of his chest radiated heat as he held Dorian to him. Those cold hands rubbed up and down his back, soothing. Cullen’s voice was earnest in a way Dorian hadn’t heard before when he said, “Thank you for showing me this. For telling me the truth.”

“For telling you what kind of person I am?” Dorian nearly spat, a wave of self-loathing making him want to shove Cullen away violently. He didn’t, though. The allure of warmth and affection was too strong to resist, especially right now.

Cullen just sighed, his voice still earnest and gentle as he said, “I think we’re more alike than either of us want to admit.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the late update, everyone! I am feeling better, but my COVID siesta means that I'm swamped at work currently. This chapter is talky, but I promise, it's going somewhere.

For someone who made quite a fuss about being independent and dangerous, Dorian was like an octopus when sharing a bed. Cullen woke to find the mage wrapped around him, a tangle of limbs that couldn’t possibly be comfortable. And yet Dorian was sleeping soundly, breathing heavily into Cullen’s shoulder and drooling slightly.

It shouldn’t have been endearing. But after nearly three days of finding everything Dorian did endearing, Cullen was past fighting it. 

Extricating himself took some work, but Dorian stayed sleeping throughout, only grumbling as Cullen moved an arm or leg. The minute Cullen was off the bed, Dorian shuffled into the warm spot created by his absence and cocooned himself further into the blankets. Shaking his head, Cullen set to work dressing himself properly for the first time in days. He was relieved to find that moving was easy now, with only a few lingering aches and pains to remind him that what had once been second nature could now incapacitate him.

It would be worth it, though. To know that he was his own master and that every Templar might be equally free would be worth any amount of personal suffering.

Once he was dressed, he leaned over to shake Dorian’s shoulder gently. “Dorian? I’m going to my office to work. I’ll be there for much of the day if you need me.”

Dorian’s face was entirely buried in the pillow, only his cheek and the ruffled tip of his mustache visible. A grunt was his only response.

Cullen paused, then added, “Do not sleep until noon.”

That provoked a mumbled, indignant, “Can’t tell me what to do.”

Smiling just a little, Cullen patted Dorian on the rump and slipped out of the room into the cold morning air. 

He took the long route to his office. This was nominally to make sure that all of the guards were on their scheduled patrol routes, although he wasn’t actually concerned. The bulk of their guards were survivors of Haven, and they took the safety of Skyhold as seriously as he did. In truth, he was doing his own patrol.

Cullen made it a regular habit to patrol the grounds at least once a week, when he wasn’t on death’s door. Leliana teased him for it and compared it to a mabari patrolling its territory, and what made that especially annoying was how true it was. It put his mind at ease to see that all corners of Skyhold were strong and relatively unchanging. It was soothing to see the various workmen running through their routines, like the castle was a vast beehive with every member focused on their own task. 

The quiet hum of life as usual centered him. From the top of the battlements, he could look out over the castle and remind himself of everyone he had vowed to protect. That centered him too, the reassurance of knowing his duty and being able to fulfill it. The sun was just beginning to shine over the mountaintops when he completed his walk and entered his office.

In all of the chaos, Cullen had nearly forgotten that his quarters had been commandeered so they might be “improved.” Squinting up at the ladder suspiciously, he noticed the sound of footsteps from above. Mentally bracing himself for something gaudy and terrible, he climbed up and poked his head through the opening.

Then he just gasped. 

The ceiling had been vaulted, like a Chantry sanctum or some nobleman’s solar. Dark, curved beams crisscrossed on the ceiling, sturdy even as they arched above his head. It was honestly surprising how much bigger it made the room; if he didn’t know better, he’d have assumed they somehow made the tower itself bigger. Two slit windows had been added to the exterior wall, but the true showpiece was the vast window that had been carved into the wall facing the inner courtyard.

The exterior of the tower was covered in a hanging tarp, and so Cullen honestly had no idea that the window was there at all when he had taken his walk this morning. But now that he could  _ see  _ it...The window was stained Orlesian glass, shaded from pale yellow to deep red in a way that reminded Cullen of the sunset. In cool blue, the Inquisition insignia sat in the center of the window, nearly the size of Cullen’s torso. It was beautiful, the sort of thing that belonged in the grandest sanctuaries of Orlais.

He’d lived his life in simple buildings and barracks, and the idea that this was all for  _ him  _ was stunning.

“Ah, hello, Commander.” The head mason, Gatsi, gave a distracted wave when he saw him. He was scribbling on a large sheet of construction plans that were braced against a sawhorse. “Heard you were ill. You back on your feet, then?”

“I am, thank you,” Cullen said, climbing the rest of the way inside. “Gatsi, this is…”

“I’ve had the lads working overtime, since I know what a pain in the ass it is to sleep in a bed that isn’t yours.” Gatsi flashed him a smile before scribbling down a few more notes. “We had to wait two days for all this glass to make it up the mountain, but that gave us time to get the frames in place, work on the roofing, make some tweaks to the stonework, that kind of thing. Assuming I keep everyone on schedule, this ought to be ready for you by late afternoon tomorrow.”

“The window, did...did Dorian pay for it?” Cullen asked, touching the glass curiously. Smooth and just opaque enough to give him privacy. 

“Dunno, I just build what they tell me.” Gatsi shrugged. “It was special order, though, not through Lady Montilyet’s normal channels, so probably. Pavus gave us most of the specific design requests.”

“Oh?” 

“Yeah, he mentioned you like a nice crossbreeze.” Gatsi shook his head and tsked. “And here I thought you had more sense than most surfacers, Commander.” 

That made Cullen duck his head to hide a smile. “You know, Gatsi, you’ve been out of Orzammar for several years now. You’re nearly an honorary surfacer yourself.”

“Bite your tongue!” Gatsi gave him an offended look. “There’s still time for me to sabotage all this.”

“Apologies, master mason, apologies.” Still smiling, Cullen traced his fingers across the frame running along the lower third of the window. “Hinges?”

“Aye, it’ll swing out and give you a good breeze,” Gatsi said, coming over to tap the window. “Your mage nagged us about it like some sort of mother nug fussing over her nest.”

Cullen felt his cheeks heat. Under the excuse of inspecting the window, he looked away and murmured, “He’s hardly my mage.”

Gatsi just snorted. “Might want to tell him that, then. Now, Commander, if this all looks acceptable, I’m shooing you out of my job site.”

“It’s remarkable, Gatsi,” Cullen said, clapping him on the shoulder. “More than I ever expected.”

Back below in his office, Cullen stared blankly at his desk. The thought of Dorian devoting so much attention to ensuring that Cullen’s new quarters had enormous windows...he knew what feeling was kindling in his chest, warm and sweet. He just wasn’t sure that he wanted to name it.

\---

Being back in the thick of things put Cullen in an excellent mood. He was always at his happiest when he was juggling twelve different projects with more on the way, and his unplanned holiday had left him with plenty to do. Cassandra had to physically herd him out of his office for the interrogation she’d promised, but she seemed to be in an equally good mood by the end of his (very pared down and non-explicit) explanation.

“You two are getting along well,” she observed, leaning against the battlements next to him. 

“Better than we were, at the very least. Why are you smiling?”

Shaking her head, Cassandra said, “You deserve some joy in your life, Cullen. I am glad you aren’t suffering. If you and Dorian must be bound together this way, it will be less painful if you are not at each other’s throats.”

Cullen sighed, looking out over the magnificent sweep of the Frostbacks around them. “You were a noble, Cassandra. Or still are, I suppose.”

With a snort, Cassandra said, “Do not remind me. I still occasionally get letters from distant relatives demanding I weigh in on some family spat, as if I care in the least.”

“Arranged marriages are common among the nobility, aren’t they?” He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Not that this is a marriage, mind you, but…”

“It is not dissimilar,” she agreed. “What are you wondering?”

“Are they ever happy?” Cullen asked. His own thoughts mixed with the memory of Dorian sobbing against him last night. “Josephine is betrothed and seems pleased with it. Vivienne’s duke and duchess seem to get along well. But the thought of marrying someone as a--a business arrangement, little more than a housemate that you have to reproduce with, it all seems awful.”

Cassandra smiled at him again. “You are more of a romantic than you think, Cullen Rutherford.”

He blushed hotly. “Please forget I’ve ever spoken?”

Hearing her laugh, even when it was at his expense, pleased him. Things had been so grim since the Conclave, and he knew she still mourned for the Divine and everyone she had lost. Cassandra was like him, often covering her pain under the comforting drive of duty. Making her forget that grief was a worthy accomplishment.

With Cassandra mollified, the rest of Cullen’s day proceeded well. There was no sign of Dorian, meaning he was either still asleep or he was avoiding Cullen. Whichever it was, he’d have to touch in with him later, after their war council meeting.

“Welcome back to us, Commander,” Josephine said with a smile, kissing him on the cheek as she passed by.

“I’m glad to be back,” Cullen said, leaning a hip against the War Table. “I’ve been keeping abreast of the reports, of course, but that doesn’t compare to--wait.” He stared down at the markers scattered across the map. “Some of these have been moved. The ones in the Western Approach, and over here, on the Storm Coast. Has something happened?”

He looked up at the sound of Maxwell groaning. Josephine was shaking her head as she fished a small coin purse out of her sleeve. Leliana, on the other hand, looked entirely too smug.

“They were moved an inch to the left, Cullen, Maker’s sake,” Maxwell complained, as he too dug up his coin purse. He and Josephine both deposited several sovereigns in Leliana’s waiting hands.

“Well, I see that you’ve all been very productive while I’ve been gone,” Cullen sniffed, scowling at the lot of them. He’d expected better from Josephine, at least.

Snickering, Maxwell nudged the pieces back into their proper positions. “We’ve been very busy! Grand events don’t plan themselves, and the mess in Sahrnia didn’t go away just because we cleared out the Red Templars.”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve read the latest reports. The villagers are certain their missing aren’t among the dead we uncovered in the mines? Some of those bodies were nearly unrecognizable.”

When he kept himself busy, Cullen was almost able to forget that his one-time friend was force-feeding innocents lyrium so it could grow inside them like some perverse crystal garden. Almost. 

“They’re sure,” Josephine said. “We’ve been matching the missing and dead against the census that was taken only a year ago. Even with the terrible fate of many of the villagers, there are still a suspicious number of missing.”

“I will keep my agents searching for information,” Leliana said, staring down at Emprise du Lion with as much focus as one of her ravens. “They may not be keeping the villagers fed, but the Templars will still need supplies.”

“Keep Cullen updated,” Maxwell directed. “We’ll probably need numbers on our side to make any rescue successful.”

“In happier news, we have received word from our scouts that multiple caravans are making their way to Skyhold,” Josephine said. “Our work at clearing out the bandits in the Hinterlands has given the nobles safe and easy trips, which will impress them.”

“I want to once again lodge a protest against hosting all of them within the castle walls.” Cullen tried not to sound as irritated as he felt. “We have tourney tents that would serve perfectly well for this, and allow us to keep a tighter grip on who is coming and going from the castle itself. This is a security risk and-”

“Not this again,” Maxwell groaned. “Cullen, we cannot shove some of our most influential nobles in a tourney tent when there’s room in the castle, especially when  _ we  _ invited them. Josephine?”

“The Inquisitor is right, Cullen.” Josephine at least sounded apologetic. “I take your concerns seriously, but for the sake of diplomacy-”

“What good will diplomacy be when Corypheus’ agents have been able to examine our fortifications personally?” Cullen crossed his arms. “Leliana, you know firsthand what a motivated Orlesian bard is capable of. Tell them this is dangerous.”

Leliana sighed like a teacher listening to her pupils squabble. “Cullen is right, to an extent. With that many people in the castle, my agents will be unable to keep a careful eye on all of them. We will be reduced to guarding the most high-security areas.”

“You see?” 

“But,” she added, giving him a look, “Josephine and Maxwell are also right, and their concerns are more relevant. The story of the Inquisition keeping visitors in tents, even the finest tourney tents, will spread like wildfire.”

Cullen made a tired noise, and Josephine said, “Commander, I know that it is a security risk. But I think what we will gain from this, both in reputation and power, makes it worth the risk. I would not ask to bring so many strangers into our walls if I did not think it would benefit us.”

Grudgingly, he nodded. Josephine was always sensible and never one for unnecessary risk. He had come to respect her opinion on matters like these, even when he disagreed completely. “Very well. If we must do this, I will bring in extra squads of guards to try manage the situation as best we can. But their households are staying outside the walls.”

“That’ll be fine, it will make them feel exclusive,” Maxwell said. He was still eyeing Cullen, though, and after a moment he added, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Cullen answered reflexively. 

“Great, because I’ve received a mean letter about you and it’s going to ruin your mood.” Maxwell held up a heavy, rolled piece of parchment. Cullen could smell the cologne wafting off of it even across the table. “I thought we should talk about it before guests actually start arriving.”

“Delightful.” Cullen had never sounded less enthused.

“All right, here we go.” Maxwell unrolled the parchment. “Should I do an Orlesian accent, or-”

“No.” For once, all three advisors were in perfect agreement.

“Fine, fine,” Maxwell sighed. “There’s the standard greetings, very polite, congratulations on my holy ascent to my exalted position, laying it on a little thick. And then we get to the meat of it, which is: ‘We feel that we would be remiss if we did not warn you of the viper in your midst. The leader of your forces, Cullen Rutherford, was the right hand of the tyrant Meredith Stannard. He is no friend to mages like yourself, and a danger to this magister who has taken him as a consort.”

“Oh really?” Cullen’s eyes narrowed, and he tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword to keep from clenching his fists like a child. “And may I ask which esteemed citizens of Kirkwall sent this letter?”

“Minor nobles, apparently, Orlesian in origin,” Maxwell said, watching him. “A Guillaume and Dulci de Launcet.”

“Oh, the fucking de Launcets!” Cullen spat, briefly forgetting he was in polite company. (Josephine, who had never heard him swear, looked delighted.) “I might have known those villains wouldn’t do me the courtesy of dying in the Orlesian civil war.”

“Er, so the fond feelings are mutual?” Maxwell asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Let me tell you about the de Launcets,” Cullen growled. “Their son, Emile, developed magic as a child. He was taken to the Gallows and grew up there, and his parents were so bloody ashamed of him that they never bothered to visit him in over a decade even though they lived in the same city.”

“Ashamed?” Maxwell’s voice was tight, his expression narrow.

“I don’t know how you’d like me to phrase it, Inquisitor!” Cullen sighed harshly through his nose and continued, slightly calmer, “Magic was greatly feared in Kirkwall. The Veil is thin there and mages fall often to blood magic or possession. The nobility of the city developed a great paranoia regarding magic appearing in their bloodlines. A mage child was a mark of disgrace. Hawke’s noble family, the Amells, would likely have been ruling the city if a cousin of Hawke’s hadn’t developed magic years before he was ever born.”

That was all they would get of Apprentice Amell. That was  _ all _ . 

“I know it was different in Ostwick,” Cullen continued, endeavoring to keep his voice even. “I know it seems strange to you, given that you are close with your family. But Emile de Launcet’s parents were more than happy to shun him to preserve their reputation.”

“What happened to Emile?” Maxwell was still watching Cullen a little too intently, like he was searching for some falsehood.

“He was unremarkable as a mage, and his instructors were not impressed with his grades in other areas.” Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. “In 9:37, he and two other apostates escaped from the Gallows, destroying their phylacteries. Meredith asked Hawke to track them down, hoping to impress upon him the dangers an apostate could pose.”

“Oh?” Maxwell laughed, but it was not an amused sound. 

“Of the three escaped apostates, one murdered his wife for blood magic and one became an abomination that would have rampaged through Darktown had Hawke not been there to put her down,” Cullen said flatly, just a little satisfied at the way Maxwell’s eyes widened. “Emile, on the other hand, begged his parents for money and then proceeded to get ragingly drunk in a tavern. He told everyone that he was a very powerful blood mage.”

“He what?” Josephine murmured.

“Hawke caught up to him and apparently felt sorry for him, since he let him escape. He fed Meredith some obvious lie about Emile being dead.”

“Meredith knew Hawke was lying?” Maxwell asked.

“Meredith was clinging to sanity by her fingernails, but she was no fool,” Cullen sighed. “Hawke’s sympathy for apostates was an open secret, and it’s not as if we didn’t know he was an apostate himself. Anyway, that was the last I heard of Emile, since his parents wouldn’t actually go through the trouble of sheltering him. But the de Launcets evidently blamed the Templar threat for driving their precious son from the city. They were quite outspoken among the nobles who were calling for Meredith’s ousting. When the Chantry was destroyed and Kirkwall was in utter chaos, they fled the city along with many of the other nobles. They wrote me, demanding that the Guard-Captain and I devote precious manpower to defending the empty mansions of Hightown from looters. When this didn’t happen, I was treated to another several letters, which I stopped responding to.” He smiled narrowly. “I’m so glad to know they still think fondly of me.”

Maxwell sighed. “All right, they do sound...stressful. But this isn’t the first letter I’ve gotten from the Kirkwall nobility hinting that you were a danger to mages. This was just the most direct.”

Cullen counted back from ten, searching for a response that was not frustrated yelling. 

Josephine, meanwhile, spoke up. “We’ve also received letters commending you for your good work in the aftermath of the Chantry explosion, Commander. Many of the nobles sent genuine well-wishes.”

“But I’d still like to talk about the ‘danger to mages’ part,” Maxwell interrupted. He tilted his chin up, wearing his ‘Inquisitor face.’ 

He’d gathered his wits enough to respond. “I suspect they see me as a Templar first and foremost. And...I do understand their fears regarding the Templars. Meredith ruled with an iron fist, and cruelty was not discouraged, no matter whether it was aimed at civilians or our charges.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I should have spoken out sooner. I should have done more. But the Templars who would back me over Meredith were perhaps a third of the Gallows total. It was not until she was actually transforming from the red lyrium that even the most loyal Templars would turn on her. Before that, I would have been slaying my brothers-in-arms if I turned against her.”

“If I may interject,” Leliana said, leaning in to be a part of the conversation, “the Divine feared that Meredith was too powerful to unseat. She advised the Grand Cleric to flee the city rather than be caught in the coming violence. She feared an Exalted March might be needed to quell the violence from both Templars and apostates.”

“The Divine wasn’t wrong, at least about the oncoming bloodshed” Cullen sighed. “There was a movement among the nobles to elect Hawke as viscount. It would likely have succeeded, and my hope was that Meredith would yield power peacefully. But in hindsight, it was always going to end in violence.”

“You’re not a Templar anymore,” Maxwell said, his tone neutral. 

“No. I have had my fill of it for a lifetime,” Cullen answered. “I joined the Inquisition in hopes of finding a better way to protect people. You have seen me work with mages and non-mages alike, and I have followed your orders loyally. I have not strangled Dorian Pavus no matter how irritating he was being.”

That startled a snort out of Maxwell, and he nodded. “Yeah. Your work does speak for itself.” His expression was still serious, but no longer imperious. “I trust you, Cullen, and I know you don’t like talking about this. But if it’s going to come up, I need to know what to tell people.”

“Tell them that whatever I was before, I’m part of the Inquisition now,” Cullen said. “Let that be enough.”

He hoped desperately that it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The de Launcet family are some of my favorite NPCs because they are absolutely ridiculous. Emile, especially. Did you know you can get him laid before making him go back to the Templars, if you want? Hawke the Wingman! But I noticed his parents saying that they hadn't seen him since he was taken to the Circle, which is strange, since Leandra will mention visiting Bethany in person. So this is Cullen/me filling in the blanks on why they might have kept their distance.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for some canon-typical violence in this chapter. Blood, gore, and stabbing.

By the time he barged into Dorian’s quarters, it was well past sundown. The tedium of work had put him in a slightly better mood, but just slightly. Discovering that Dorian was out of his chair with fire blazing in both hands didn’t help.

“Put that away!” he barked, stomping over to the armoire where he had been storing his clothes.

“Knock before you enter my quarters!” Dorian snapped, the flame disappearing in a puff of ozone-scented air. “I could have burnt you to a crisp.”

“Do you shoot anyone who walks into your rooms?” Cullen groused, tugging the straps securing his chestplate.

“As if you have any room to talk! That training dummy you throw knives at is very close to the door.” Dorian’s tone was very, very casual as he added, “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been here, naked, for the past three days.” With his armor removed and as tidy as he could make it without a proper armor stand, Cullen sat on the bed and started to remove his boots.

“That doesn’t mean you live here!” Dorian sounded flustered, of all things, and Cullen glanced up at him with amusement.

“I was going to stay for the sake of appearances until my quarters are finished. Gatsi told me it would be tomorrow, most likely.”

Dorian blinked. “Ah.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “You forgot that was happening, didn’t you?”

“No!” Dorian sniffed. “I’ve just had my mind on other things. Very well. You may stay, but don’t move any more of your possessions in than you must.”

That made him laugh. “You really  _ are _ back to normal.” He studied Dorian for a moment, leaning back on his hands. “Do you want to talk?”

“Absolutely not.” Dorian’s tone became more serious. He actually turned his back on Cullen and began rearranging things on his desk, like the entire conversation was beneath his interest.

“We don’t have to,” Cullen said, absently digging his now-bare toes into the rug.Then, while he still had the nerve for it, he added, “I know about becoming someone different to keep anyone from getting to you again. That’s all.”

Dorian stilled, but the air around him nearly vibrated with tension. He was silent for a long moment before he said, “You promised you would tell me about Kirkwall.”

“Is this curiosity?” Cullen asked. “Or are you trying to jab at a hole in my armor to make me go away?”

It was astonishing, really, how much of Dorian’s behavior made perfect sense when Cullen framed it as something he’d done in the past. Cullen had chosen a facade of cold, implacable duty rather than Dorian’s sneering self-importance, but both served the same purpose: keeping other people away. People kept at arm’s length could be controlled, and control was paramount. How had he not seen this before? 

“You don’t know me!” Dorian snarled, rounding on him and jabbing a finger in the air. “You know one ugly secret, and that’s all!”

Cullen raised his hands, the universal signal of yielding the point. “I know. But that’s what I would do, in your shoes. So I thought it worthwhile to ask.”

Dorian’s jaw worked furiously, and then he said, “Maxwell tells me he’s been receiving letters. I just wonder if I’m in danger from the big, bad Knight-Commander.”

It was a well-aimed insult, jabbing at a dozen points that Dorian knew would upset him. A few days ago, Cullen would have gladly let this devolve into a brawl. But he felt more removed now, able to see this as objectively as a chess game. Dorian was making a show of lashing out.

“Technically, I was only ever the interim Knight-Commander,” Cullen replied, deliberately mild. “Most of my tenure in Kirkwall was spent as Knight-Captain.”

“Oh, what a difference.” His tone was downright bratty.

“The difference between an altus and a magister, at least.”

Dorian huffed indignantly, and Cullen decided it was probably better to stop this before it could escalate.

“If I call up a memory deliberately, do you think you would be able to see it in the Fade?” he asked, propping his elbows on his knees. “Similar to what you did last night, but with my memories rather than your own? I know I can’t shape them myself.”

Dorian clearly had not been expecting that, and watching him try to absorb the new direction of the conversation would have been funny in other circumstances. As it was, Cullen just waited until the other man realized that he was actually serious. “I...that’s not something you have to do, Rutherford. I didn’t--this isn’t meant to be some game of who will flinch from sharing a horrible memory first.”

“I know that,” Cullen said, calm and serious. “I’m making the offer because I think it will help you understand. I’m no wordsmith, not like Varric or Josephine. But I can show you.”

Faced with the prospect of either continuing to pick a fight or getting to play with some new form of magic, Dorian’s grumble of “Well. Fine.” was practically a formality.

\---

In the safety of the Fade, Cullen approached the door that Dorian had conjured on the wall. Privately, he was glad that this experiment would not be changing the sunroom. He did not want to bring Kirkwall into this warm, quiet space.

“You don’t have to do this,” Dorian said again, hovering at Cullen’s shoulder. His resemblance to a fussy hen was something Cullen was absolutely not going to mention. “I meant what I said. If..if you’d prefer not to talk about Kirkwall at all, then that’s all right.”

That caused a surge of fondness that Cullen was also not going to mention. “I know, Dorian. I want to do this.” He sighed and flattened his hands against the door. The texture was just a little too smooth to be believable. “There are a few...choice memories that summarize my time in that city.”

“It won’t be like walking you through my memories,” Dorian warned, his tone growing more urgent. “I was able to shape the Fade around us, then. This might be like you are reliving it, not just watching it.”

That gave him pause. “It will...it will be violent.”

Dorian didn’t look away, searching Cullen’s face for something. “I can survive that. If you can.”

With a deep breath, Cullen focused on the memory. “Do it.”

His hand steady, Dorian settled his fingers on Cullen’s temple. There was a rumbling sound from the door beyond, like something heavy was being dragged on stone. “I  _ think _ that should bring it forth.” He looked between the door and Cullen. “Are you sure about this?”

Wordless, Cullen settled his hand on the doorknob.

Dorian placed his hand over Cullen’s. “Ready when you are, then.”

Opening the door was not like stepping into the past. It was more like drowning in it.

\---

You are Cullen Rutherford, and you’ve only been in this city for two weeks. It’s been two weeks too many. You can hear screaming, and people are running past you in terror.

Beside you is Samson, your bunkmate-slash-patrol-partner, who you are fairly sure hates you. He is shoving civilians out of the way, ordering them to move, to run, to get indoors and stay there. The two of you are moving as fast as you can towards the hexagonal courtyard that is somewhere ahead, but the streets are narrow and the people rushing past are a panicked mob.

There is a body in the street. A man, split from his throat to his groin by a demon’s claws. The blood pooling around him is like a black lake. He had dragged himself here, based on the long, long streaks of blood behind him.

“You!” Samson gestures to the shopkeer who is cowering in frozen horror. “Take this body inside and lock it in your storeroom.”

“W-what?” The shopkeeper gapes at him, her skin pale as fresh linens. “That’s my neighbor, he’s dead, I can’t-”

“And if he reanimates, would you rather have him walking in your front door or locked in the sodding cupboard?!” Samson snapped. This is the first time you have ever seen him taking something seriously. It is a new side to him, a different view of a man who has been content to slack off and make sarcastic comments all day long. Samson pointed at a nearby civilian. “You! Help her move it. Now! That’s an order from the Templars!”

Then he is rushing down the street, and you are following.

“Will that actually work?” you ask, your hand gripping the pommel of your sword tightly. The streets are too narrow to draw it; there is too much risk that someone will accidentally impale themselves.

“It might,” Samson grunts. “Giving them an order tends to help, gives them something to focus on. And it’ll keep them alive if a spirit gets through and into that corpse.”

The two of you round the corner into the courtyard, and it is a scene of chaos. The stalls have been overturned, clothing and food trampled underfoot. Along the upper walkway, two rage demons are feasting on a corpse. You can count three bodies lying bloody and limp, their blood and viscera painting the ground around them..

In the center of the courtyard, there is a mage kneeling next to another body. The mage is sobbing, his skinny shoulders shaking with the force of it. Lightning is crawling up his arms and sparking out towards the nearest metal objects like the tentacles of a curious squid.

“Fuck,” Samson swears. “One of us on the demons, one of us on the mage?”

You nod. Then, almost without your brain’s permission, you say, “I’ll take the mage.”

Samson gives you a sidelong look, then says, “Be careful, be smart. Backup is on the way. Stall if you can.”

Then he slips into the shadows, the winding alleys in and out of the courtyard. You step forward into the sun.

The mage’s head snaps up, his green eyes wide and red from tears. He’s a boy, no more than fourteen. His tan skin is splotchy, spotted with acne. A deep purple bruise is forming on one cheek. His hands are shaking, more electricity spilling from them. The body he is kneeling over has been cooked from the inside out by lightning.

“Get away!” the mage barks, holding up a hand as if to ward you off. His voice cracks as he adds, “I’ll kill you if you come closer!”

He has no control over the lightning, you can see that immediately. His magic is fueled purely by his emotions, by his terror. Pulling the demons through the Veil had likely been a terrible accident. In another city, where the Veil wasn’t so thin, this might never have happened. 

But this is Kirkwall, and unless someone can find a way to move the entire city, this is normal.

You hate it here. But there is so much work to be done.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you say, approaching slowly. Your hands are off your sword, but hovering near your belt. Above you, you can hear the demons moaning and chattering, the sound of flesh ripping and cooking. “You need to calm down.”

“You’re here to kill me!” the mage shrieks, lightning arcing violently off of him. The metal pole near him that has taken the brunt of the lightning is beginning to melt from the continued assault. 

You have never been more aware that your armor is metal. “I don’t want to do that, but you need to stand down.”

“It was an accident!” The mage pounds a fist against the ground, lightning cracking on impact. “It was an accident! He’s been teasing me all day and he pushed me and I didn’t--and everyone was screaming, throwing things at me, and  _ it was an accident! _ ”

The body on the ground bears a strong resemblance to the mage. Brothers, then. 

He is too far for a Smite or a Spell Purge. You have to get closer. The lightning swarming around him is a sloppy but deadly barrier. Where is Samson? You can still hear the demons feasting. 

The only reason that you are not transported back to Kinloch, back to the room and the cage and Uldred, is that the sky is blue above you and the sun is so, so warm. Far away, you can hear gulls. You are in Kirkwall, and it is a horror, but it is not the worst horror you have seen. 

“Breathe!” You snap, the order sharp and startling to both of you. “Take deep breaths, stop panicking, and control yourself before someone else gets hurt!”

The mage stares at you, eyes huge and body wreathed in lightning.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you say, and it is mostly true. The boy in front of you is not Uldred, not the laughing blood mages, but he is dangerously close to a rabid dog. This is exactly what you tried to warn them about, back in Kinloch. “But I can’t help you unless you calm yourself down and surrender.”

“I don’t want to go to the Circle,” the boy sobs, the electricity crackling and popping.

And the people in the market hadn’t wanted to die screaming. At least six people are dead, and the mage is weeping for himself. You clench your jaw, swallow the words you want to spit, and say, “It’s safer for everyone if you come with me. No one else has to get hurt.”

The boy just looks at you, shaking. But slowly, the lightning begins to fade.

Then one of the demons on the walkway above roars. You hear Samson grunt, hear the clash of metal against flesh.

“No!” the boy screams, terrified anew. And then he begins to convulse. There is a gurgling sound, an inhuman noise that you recognize all too well.

You don’t hesitate. The dagger is at your belt, and then it is in your hand. Your aim has never been better. The blade sinks deep into the boy’s eye, killing him instantly. He drops to the ground, a puppet without strings. The demon that has been trying to possess him is too disoriented at suddenly finding its host dead, and it is the work of seconds to step forward and bring your sword down.

The boy’s head rolls across the ground, contorted and half-transformed. His remaining eye is still wide open. His teeth have morphed into fangs.

You look up to see Samson dispatching the final demon. The danger is over. Silence again, but for the gulls.

You stagger to the side of the market and vomit. You can’t stop, heaving again and again until there’s nothing coming up at all.

Time blurs, rushing forward, minutiae that is not important. When it slows down again, you are sitting on your bunk, taking deep breaths. You have taken off your armor. It needs to be cleaned.

You think you might be sick again. 

Samson squats down in front of you, his expression serious. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” you say, a reflex.

_ “Cullen.”  _ It is the first time Samson has ever used your given name. Concern is written plainly on his face. “Are you all right?”

You just stare at him, unable to find the words. Of course you aren’t all right. You’ll never be all right again.

"Is this the first life you've ever taken?" he asks softly. 

You feel yourself shudder, see the room spin a little as you remember Beval, remember watching his blood paint the floor as he died slowly from a gut wound.  _ "You kill him fast, or I'll let him die slowly." _ Uldred's breath in your ear, laughing.  _ "Life is all about hard choices, little one. Will you do your duty?" _

"No," is all you can force out. You feel distant from your body, your hands and feet numb.

Samson studies you, his head tilted. There is a moment where the only sound is your shared breathing, and then he asks, "Do you want a hug?"

What a stupid question, as if you're some child who scraped their knee and needs to be cosseted. It's ridiculous, it's insulting, it- "Yes."

Samson is warm and solid, and you feel yourself start to tremble as he holds you. He whispers, “You did all you could do, Cullen. That’s all anyone can ask of you.”

Time blurs again, the passage of hours compacted into mere seconds. You are standing in Meredith’s office. It is meticulously tidy, not a thing out of place. That goes for the woman standing behind the desk as well. She is the very picture of control, of poise, and her gaze is as cold and steady as a frozen lake. You feel like a stupid child from just being in her presence. 

“I understand there was a fatality today,” she says, her tone impossible to read.

“Yes, ser.” You swallow so hard that your throat clicks. “I endeavored to bring the mage in alive, but he was overcome by a demon and I had no choice but to kill him.”

The Knight-Commander studies you. Her posture is effortlessly perfect, no hint of fatigue or idleness. “I understand the mage was a child.”

Your hands shake. “Yes, Knight-Commander.”

For the first time, she looks away, her lips thinning. “That is always a difficult thing. The demons of this city seem to delight in targeting children.”

You blink. “Yes, ser. I...I had hoped to save him.”

She fixes her gaze on you again, pinning you in place. “Your partner says that you did admirably. It’s commendable that you performed so well.” She tilts her head, just slightly. “I’ve read your file. You’ve seen firsthand how dangerous uncontrolled magic can be. Some Templars would not be able to take the field after something like that.”

Panic,  _ panic, _ and you suck in a sharp gasp that she cannot possibly miss. “Knight-Commander, I-”

“Cullen.” Everyone is using your given name today, apparently. Her voice is not softer, exactly, but it has an edge of comfort to it. “You are clearly fit to fight. But if there is ever a time when you aren’t, you will still have a place here. Any Templar willing to follow orders and do his duty will have a place under me.”

Unsteady, you just nod.

She looks at you again, sharp as a diamond. “Do you know how Kirkwall came to be in this state, Templar?”

Surely she can’t want a history lesson. “No, ser.”

“I think you do.” The full force of her attention is like standing underneath the noon sun. “Ages ago, a few Tevinter magisters used blood magic so recklessly that they nearly sundered the Veil. A handful of mages who cared for no one but themselves, and every person in Kirkwall is in danger because of it, even hundreds of years later. Mages, children, elven, human, we are all at risk because of what they did.”

Yes.  _ Yes _ . Finally, someone who understands. It’s not that you want to hurt anyone, but magic is not  _ safe _ , and mages are magic made flesh. You breathe out, “Yes, ser.” 

She steps forward, clapping you on the shoulder. “You understand, perhaps more than any of us, what can happen even if only a few mages use their power irresponsibly. You understand the knife’s edge this city hangs on. I think you’ll do well here, Cullen.”

It has been so long since anyone has seen you as anything besides broken. The glow of pride inside of you is so comforting that you could cry.

Her grip tightens suddenly. There is a hum in the air, a distant song. Her eyes are...her eyes are red.

“Cullen,” Meredith says, and her voice echoes with some terrible power. “Cullen, you let me die.”

“No,” but you can’t move. 

Samson’s arm is around your waist, he voice in your ear. “Come home, Cullen. Come back to us.”

“No!”

They both laugh, Meredith and Samson, and Meredith opens her mouth to sing. But it’s not with words. The lyrium. The song.

_ The song, the song, the song, the song- _

\---

The mosaic ceiling of the sunroom was the most reassuring thing Cullen had ever seen in his life. He gasped for breath, blinking like a stunned bird as he tried to get his bearings. Beside him, Dorian was in a similar state, breathing hard and looking around the room like he was searching for an enemy.

“At the end, that was…” Cullen swallowed and tried again with a steadier voice. “That wasn’t a memory, obviously.”

“No. It was one of your nightmares creeping in.” Dorian ran a shaky hand through his hair. “I should have kept a steadier grip. I don’t think we’ll be doing that again. The inside of your skull is a rather dangerous place to be.”

That made him laugh, despite everything. “No arguments here.” But the levity faded quickly, and left behind was the bitter reminder of how fragile and stupid he had once been. “Kirkwall was a slaughterhouse. And Meredith made me feel safe. By the time I realized that she was crumbling, too much was already in motion. I survived, but so many others didn’t. Perhaps...”

“They can’t have you back.” The ferocity in Dorian’s voice was sudden, unexpected. He crawled to Cullen and yanked him into a tight embrace, his fingers digging into his back. “They  _ cannot  _ have you back. You’re mine now.”

“They?” Cullen asked, a little dazed at the sudden switch in directions.

“Kirkwall. The Templars. Anyone.” Dorian gripped him like he might slip away at any moment.. “You’re  _ mine.” _

And really, he should have protested. But after the whirlwind tour of his own frailty, it was such a relief to just be held. 

\---

The first of the nobles began arriving the next day. Cullen leaned against the stone railing and watched the bustle of commotion with a scowl. Already, the courtyard was a hive of activity, too many people to track and far, far too many unknowns.

He heard the click of high heels and glanced to the side to see Vivienne walking the ramparts, likely taking a shortcut to the library. It was a surprise when she stopped by his side instead.

“Would you like to play a game, Commander?” 

He raised an eyebrow. “Are we discussing chess?”

She laughed lightly. “No, something much more useful. Arrayed below us are the best of the de Rondane and the Segelette families. As you know, my work as court enchanter made it fashionable for nobles to take on their own ‘occult advisors’.”

“Yes, I saw the names of several enchanters on submitted guest lists.”

“Ah, but Orlesian nobility enjoy pushing boundaries.” Vivienne sniffed disdainfully. “Summoning weak demons, holding seances, eating strange mushrooms and communing with ‘nature spirits.’ Childish games that treat magic like a toy. A Circle enchanter can often be counted on to warn them away from that. But an apostate in their employ usually proves much more pliable.”

“I would say I’m surprised, but that does sound very Orlesian, yes,” Cullen said, shaking his head. “What of it?”

“Stand here with me and just...watch.”

They stood in silence for a few minutes, simply looking down at the controlled chaos in the courtyard. They were far from the only people doing so, and so it took some time for anyone to take notice of them. It happened in fits and spurts. A servant would glance up and then nudge their fellows. The whole group would stare up curiously at the Inquisition’s Commander and Madame de Fer before going about their business. 

And then one of the servants wearing the white and red livery of the de Rondane family did a double take, gawping up at them. At  _ Cullen _ . The de Rondane family had not listed any mages among their guests.

“An apostate,” Cullen sighed, careful to keep his lips from forming the word too obviously.

“I suspected there was at least one working for the mistress of the household,” Vivienne said amiably, her expression of calm never wavering. “Madame de Rondane adores stories of curses and hauntings.”

“Do you think they’ll put Skyhold in danger?” he asked. Instinctively, he began noting chokepoints in the courtyard, ambush sites that could be used for archers should a mage suddenly begin to transform. 

“No, or I would have cautioned against this gathering in the first place,” Vivienne answered. “Apostates among the nobility are like dragons: they keep to their own territories and guard them fiercely. They did not get this far without control, and they would not attend something like this unless they were sure of themselves.

Across the courtyard, one of the Segelette daughters was staring open-mouthed at Cullen. An Orlesian noble, albeit a minor one, staring at the marks only a mage could see.

“That makes sense,” Vivienne mused, like she was watching a performance that had just taken an interesting twist. “An age ago, magic cropped up in their bloodline. Something like three out of four children were born with it. And just as suddenly, it disappeared after a few generations.”

“Let me guess.” It took effort not to look at the Segelette mage. “They suddenly purchased a secluded villa where some of their children began spending all of their time, a practice they continue to this day?”

“Ah, Commander, and you claim not to understand the Game.” Vivienne nodded. “They’ve hidden it well. I had suspected one of the distant cousins, not a direct heir. Interesting.”

“You want me to stand out here as bait to find out who has apostates in their household.” Cullen shook his head wonderingly. 

“It’s useful information to have, wouldn’t you agree?” she asked, giving him a conspiratorial smile.

Schemes upon schemes. The nobles were so exhausting. Still, Cullen had to concede that it  _ was  _ very useful information. Leliana would be thrilled with him, assuming she wasn’t already hiding somewhere to watch this unfold..

“I can spare an hour each day.”

“That will suffice.”

“...I hope you aren’t expecting witty conversation.”

“Perish the thought, darling.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You kids like use of second person tense to show a state of unreality, right? Sure hope so. It was either that or italicize the entire memory sequence.


	26. Chapter 26

The masons officially completed work on Cullen’s tower early that evening, removing the tarp and revealing the new windows to great fanfare. The assembled crowd in the courtyard ooh-ed and ahh-ed, just as Dorian had expected them to.

“Very nice, Lord Pavus,” Josephine said, nodding her approval at both the windows and the crowd’s reaction. “The Inquisition sigil is a lovely touch.”

“In addition to my considerable magical skills and piles of money, I like to think one of my most important contributions is my impeccable taste.” Dorian stroked his mustache for effect.

She chuckled. “Speaking of your ‘impeccable taste,’ I carry a request from Maxwell: stop raiding his wine cellar while the nobility are gathered. He is planning to impress some of them with the rare vintages, and that cannot happen if the bottle is three-quarters empty.” 

“Saving the world is so tiresome,” Dorian groaned, allowing himself to sway dramatically. “Drinking strange, 300-year-old moonshine that’s been pulled out of a cave is the one pleasure I have left, and you’d take it from me?”

“You will have to settle for a nice Antivan red that has not been under a pile of rocks since the Black Age,” Josephine responded, hiding a smile. 

A light came on in the upper tower, the candle making the new stained glass shimmer. Deliberately casual, Dorian excused himself and strolled into Cullen’s office. He just needed to speak to the man, that was all. He was hardly checking in on him or worrying if he liked the new quarters. That would be beneath him.

The office was empty, but the trapdoor leading up was open. Soft footsteps made the ceiling above creak.

“Commander?”

Cullen’s voice drifted down the ladder. “Come up.”

Dorian was pleased to see that his money had not been wasted. Cullen’s quarters were substantially improved, with a higher ceiling and more attractive woodwork throughout. Combined with the lovely windows, the room was actually worthy of a consort of House Pavus. That was one fire extinguished before it could properly start.

Cullen stood in the center of the room, actually  _ smiling. _ He had already opened the wide lower windows, and a cold mountain breeze was ruffling the loose pages of paper like a playful cat.

“Everything in order?” Dorian asked, stepping up fully into the room.. 

The next thing he knew, Cullen had backed him into the wall and was kissing him with almost startling ferocity. One arm looped around his waist, a hand was firmly clutching the nape of his neck, and Dorian felt weak in the knees from it. It had been a long time since Dorian had swooned, but  _ oh, _ this was worthy of a good swoon.

“I like my window very much,” Cullen murmured into Dorian’s ear, biting gently at the rim.

“I-I see that,” Dorian breathed. Maker’s radiance, Cullen was handsome when he was smiling. He was handsome all the time, but the way his eyes lit up…

With a laugh, Cullen kissed him again, tilting his head back from the force of it. His voice was a little breathless when he pulled back to murmur, “I’m meant to be unpacking my things, but since you’re up here, we might christen the place.”

Cullen  _ really _ enjoyed gifts that catered to his claustrophobia, apparently. Dorian would need to make a mental note of that going forward. Licking his lips, he discovered that he had to clear his throat to speak legibly. “I  _ did _ actually come up here for a conversation, but-”

Chuckling, Cullen gave him a final kiss and stepped back. “It must be important, then, if you’re turning down sex in the middle of the day.”

“The doldrums of the afternoon are the best time to have sex, and you just refuse to admit it because you don’t like being wrong,” Dorian said firmly, kneeling to close the trap door and lock it in place.

“Is this what you came up here to discuss?” Cullen leaned against the wall next to him, still looking uncharacteristically happy. 

“Sadly, no.” Dorian clasped his hands behind his back. It was a trick his father had taught him, allowing him to pose very regally and thoughtfully while also letting him fidget madly with his rings where no one could see. “With the nobility of Thedas beginning to crowd into our home, I wanted to...there are expectations for our behavior.”

The smile began to fade off of Cullen’s face. “Oh?”

With a sigh, Dorian explained, “Every nation has their own customs for showing deference. Most of Tevinter’s aren’t terribly onerous, believe it or not. If you can, sit on my lefthand side at dinner. Make sure my drink is filled - I wasn’t joking about consorts fetching drinks to cut down on the poisonings. When we are meeting with the nobles, wait until they have greeted me before you acknowledge them.”

Cullen was scowling by the end, but nodding. “I can bear that, I suppose, for the duration of this feast. Don’t become obnoxious about it.”

“There is one other…” Dorian grimaced. A few weeks ago, this would have been a far easier demand to make. He could have couched it in a sneer and been done with it. But this civility between himself and Cullen meant that Dorian felt like approaching him as an equal, and that was unknown territory. “In Tevinter, dalliances between members of the same sex are viewed as a decadent waste of time that could be better spent securing your family’s future. If you must indulge, it’s expected that you do it with a consort or a favored slave. Someone of a lesser social status.”

“‘All else must fade in the bright burn of duty’,” Cullen quoted.

Dorian’s jaw dropped. “Where in Andraste’s jiggling buttocks did you hear that?!”

There was  _ absolutely _ no way that ancient Tevinter philosophy was taught to little Templars by the southern Chantry. Hearing Cullen quoting the famously stodgy Lucius the Elder was surreal, like seeing a Qunari singing the Chant.

Pushing off the wall, Cullen went over to one of the neatly stacked boxes gathered around a bookcase. After a moment of rummaging, he pulled out a book and handed it over to Dorian.  _ In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar _ read the flowing script along the cover. 

“After you explained what had happened with your father, I...well, I wanted to understand things a bit more,” Cullen explained. “Brother Genitivi is usually very insightful and even-handed in his works, so I thought he would be a good place to start.”

Dorian flipped the book open to where a twine cord was serving as a bookmark. The chapter heading read ‘Sexuality in Thedas.’ Tears unexpectedly pricked the back of his eyes, and he blinked rapidly to clear them. “You didn’t need to do this.”

Cullen let his fingers brush against Dorian’s as he took the book back. “I don’t like going into battle unprepared.”

That made Dorian snort. “A very wise attitude to take when it comes to Tevinter social life.”

“What did you want to tell me?” Cullen asked, his voice steady and his eyes unexpectedly soft. 

Clearing his throat, Dorian explained, “There aren’t many of my countrymen coming to this soiree, certainly no one who is my social equal. But gossip can travel across the continent, so…” He sighed.  _ Best to just get it out. _ “It’s considered shameful for a man to allow himself to be, erm, penetrated by another man.”

Cullen blinked. “...why?”

“Maker, who knows?” Dorian fluttered a hand dismissively. “Something to do with asserting your will over others.” 

“But women are, you know…” Cullen’s cheeks colored. “On the receiving end, generally. Of things. Is that considered shameful?”

“No, the standards are different for men and women.”

“Why?”

“Damn it, Cullen, I don’t know!” He massaged his temples. “Traditions in Tevinter have been there for so long that everyone gave up questioning it centuries ago, and now it’s just accepted as normal.”

“All right, all right,” Cullen said, holding up his hands. “So...no implying that you have ever enjoyed being bent over anything, under any circumstances?”

“Precisely,” Dorian sighed. 

“And have you ever known me to willingly discuss the details of sex with anyone?” Cullen asked, a small smile curling the corner of his mouth.

Dorian couldn’t help but chuckle, a feeling of relief settling on him. “I thought it might help to warn you ahead of time that everyone will be making lots of assumptions about favored positions, that’s all.”

“Duly noted.”

“I’ll let you return to organizing, then.” Dorian took a step towards the trapdoor, then paused and turned on his heel. “Having said all of that, I  _ would _ like to revisit this scenario of ‘big, strong barbarian pins down a dashing magister in a rustic mountain fortress.’ And since I have nothing to do for the next hour…”

Cullen laughed and stepped forward into his space. With his armor on and the fur around his neck making him even broader, he loomed over Dorian even though they were the same height. “Is that so?”

“I could be persuaded.”

“It would be hard to keep you captured, with your magic.” Cullen’s voice was a low, smooth rumble. He reached out and took hold of Dorian’s wrists, gently but firmly pushing them backwards. With ease, Cullen pinned his hands behind his back and held them there in a loose grip. “But I think I could be creative. Perhaps keep your hands tied like this?”

They had ended up backed against the wall, the length of Cullen pressing against him with a delicious weight. He wiggled in Cullen’s grasp. “I’m very devious, though. You would need to restrain me tightly.”

Cullen leaned in, the fur tickling Dorian’s cheeks. Against the shell of his ear, he whispered, “Go downstairs and let me sort, mage.”

With a groan, Dorian snapped his teeth at Cullen. “A good consort wouldn’t tease.”

Cullen tightened his grip on Doian’s wrists. “It would take me much longer than an hour.” Then he released him and stepped back, grinning.

“Oh, you wretch.”

\---

The next day saw the arrival of Corinna Silvius, an altus whose family had some minor farm holdings east of Carastes. House Silvius had been in dire financial straits for decades, after the Qunari forced them off their ancestral lands on Seheron. As the fourth child, Corinna’s options would have been depressingly limited. Dorian wasn’t surprised she’d gone south on an apparently permanent basis. 

“She is known as a social climber in Nevarra,” Leliana said, observing her retinue from the relative secrecy of the rookery. “A necromancer, like yourself.”

“Any mage of status in Nevarra is.” Dorian was not pleased to have another Tevinter noble in Skyhold. It must have been how lions felt when watching another big cat stride across their territory. “Who is the chevalier next to her?”

“Former chevalier. That is Julian Pomeroy. His family’s lands are in western Orlais. They refused to declare for either Celene or Gaspard, and were ostracized as a result. They have been recluses ever since, rarely leaving their estate.” Leliana drummed her fingers on the desk. “I have been unable to learn much more about their current situation, besides that the eldest daughter and heir has some sort of ongoing illness. Ser Julian is the only member of his family to make any public appearances for nearly a year.”

“Why is he here?”

“He is Corinna’s consort,” Leliana said, glancing at him. “They have been together for seven months now.”

“Ah, so they are a third rate version of Cullen and myself,” Dorian sneered. “Delightful.”

But decorum meant that Dorian had to greet Corinna whether he wanted to or not. He met them in Skyhold’s garden, Cullen at his side and a completely insincere smile on his face. 

“Lady Silvius!” Dorian kissed her cheek. “Welcome, welcome! It’s a delight to meet someone from our homeland this far south.”

“Magister Pavus, thank you for inviting us!” She curtseyed, her form impeccable. Corinna was a tall woman, her skin a few shades lighter than his own and her light brown hair pulled up into an intricate coil of braids. “Oh, I must admit, this Inquisition has been the talk of every town for months. It is a privilege to see Skyhold firsthand.”

“Our ambassador has been spoiling for a chance to show it properly to the world,” Dorian said, gesturing at a row of blooming crystal grace flowers that obligingly rustled in the breeze. 

“You must be Commander Rutherford,” Corinna continued, aiming a bright white smile at Cullen, who had been lurking silently behind Dorian. “Oh, but you are like a knight from a storybook! Julian, you told me everyone else in the south was a coarse brute!”

Ser Julian gave a tight smile. He was pretty enough, Dorian supposed, with high cheekbones and full lips, but there was a tension in his frame that could not be hidden. A consort worried about being replaced, perhaps?

“To be fair, I might still be a coarse brute,” Cullen said amiably, giving her a polite bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

Dorian and Corinna went through all the normal niceties, discussing the weather (so cold compared to the warm climes of Tevinter!), the Breach (ghastly!), and the latest fashions in Minrathous (lovely!) with practiced cadence. But during a brief pause to admire the gardens, Ser Julian spoke for the first time.

“You train the Inquisition’s troops, correct, Commander?” His voice was surprisingly deep, and only slightly accented. 

“I do,” Cullen said, straightening. 

“Are you any good at it?” Julian asked it lightly, smiling like it was a joke.

The stiffness in Cullen’s shoulders said it was not a joke. But his voice was mild when he replied, “Corypheus’ troops seem to think so.”

“Do you have much chance to spar, these days?” Julian continued, not breaking eye contact with Cullen.

“Oh, Julian!” Corinna swatted him lightly on the arm with her fan. “You are like a bull, always so eager to charge and posture.”

“I’m unfortunately very busy most days,” Cullen answered. “But I take the field when I can.”

“Would you do me the honor of sparring, then?” Julian smiled, the expression not quite erasing the tension in his posture. “I would love to say I had faced off against the Commander of the Inquisition.” 

Dorian began formulating quips, things that would smooth over whatever awkwardness was about to occur. But Cullen responded perfectly, looking to Dorian and asking, “Hmm. Do you think you or the Inquisitor will have need of me in the next few hours?”

“I think I might be able to spare you,” Dorian said, looping an arm through Cullen’s. “Just don’t let him chop off anything important.” 

“Wonderful!” Corinna clapped her hands. “Our own little tourney!”

Back in Cullen’s office, Dorian leaned against the window and studied the training ring below as the other man pulled on his armor. “She must be very confident in her boy, to make him fight you.”

“Perhaps he’s just arrogant,” Cullen suggested, buckling his greaves. 

“No, she put him up to this.” Dorian glanced over his shoulder. “It will be embarrassing for her if he loses to you. You can afford to be ill-mannered and impulsive. He can’t. This was her order.”

“Hmm.” Cullen adjusted his scabbard and picked up the lion helm from where it rested on his armor stand. “Shame I’ll have to beat him into the dirt.”

That made Dorian grin. He did love watching Cullen knocking people around the training yard. “Go for the throat, ama--Commander.”

_ Fuck _ . That was an unacceptable slip. But Cullen seemed not to notice, pulling his helmet on and nodding to Dorian. “Let’s go make friends.”

By this point, news of a fight had attracted a crowd. From the Boeric Ocean to the Sundered Sea, the one universal truth in Thedas was that everyone enjoyed watching men beat each other senseless with pointy sticks. Plus, the rabble of the Inquisition also loved watching their Commander fight nearly as much as Dorian did. If Cullen was nervous at the sight of what felt like half the castle gathered to watch, he didn’t show it. Dorian gave him a final pat on the shoulder before wandering off to find Corinna.

The visiting altus had ensconced herself next to Maxwell, and treated Dorian to a happy smile. “I had no idea this would cause such a fuss!”

A blatant lie, but Dorian just waved it off with a laugh. “Who doesn’t love a good fight?”

Cullen cut a striking figure in his armor, the sunlight glinting off his helm as he took his place across from Ser Julian. The two of them shook hands and bowed to the Inquisitor before falling into a fighting stance. With their shields raised and their swords drawn, they began to circle each other.

It was like watching two dogs with their hackles raised. The tension of impending violence was palpable, and the crowd had fallen quiet as they watched the men feel each other out. Dorian tightened his grip on the railing, watching intently. When Ser Julian broke first and lunged at Cullen with a shout, the crowd around the ring roared back to life as shield clashed against shield.

It became clear very quickly that Ser Julian was outmatched. Chevalier training or no, he could not measure up to Cullen’s skills. The Commander herded him from one corner of the ring to the other, on the offensive for nearly the entire fight. Julian kept his shield up and his defenses fairly strong, but he simply could not manage to strike a blow against Cullen despite trying with increasing desperation. Within only a few minutes, it was obvious that Cullen was the stronger fighter.

Dorian was surprised by how quickly his blood rushed south at the sight of Cullen casually dominating the battlefield.  _ Big, strong barbarian, indeed. _

Cullen wasn’t the type to toy with his prey, at least not in public. With a swift movement, he hooked an ankle behind Julian’s leg and then used his shield to knock the other man backwards. Julian stumbled, unable to catch himself, and hit the dirt with an audible thump. Cullen’s sword was at his throat in an instant.

Julian’s expression was obscured by his helmet, but based on the sharp, angry way he tapped the ground, he was not pleased by his loss. He wasn’t so gauche as to ignore Cullen’s offered hand up, but he stomped out of the ring without a word to anyone once he was on his feet. The assembled crowd was delighted, cheering “Commander!” and “For the Inquisition!” in waves of noise. 

If Corinna was surprised or angry to see her champion lose, she didn’t show it. She simply clapped and smiled, leaning close to Maxwell and Dorian to be heard over the noise. “Magnificent! Oh, what a fight! It gets the blood racing, does it not?”

“It most certainly does,” Dorian agreed, watching Cullen prowl across the ring towards them.

Oh, they were  _ definitely _ christening the new quarters tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian increasingly fails at pretending he's not besotted.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The biggest of shout-outs to Wittytitle111, my partner in crime who helped wrangle this into something both manageable and smutty.

Skyhold continued to fill with nobles over the next two days, and Cullen continued doing his best to avoid any and all social obligations that did not involve physical combat. It was becoming harder. The castle was packed to bursting, and the Orlesians in particular seemed bloody fascinated by him for some reason. His only retreat was his office, where he could lock the door closest to the courtyard. The visitors were usually not motivated enough to walk all the way around the battlements. From the safety of his perch, he could watch the chaos below.

Watching Dorian in his element was actually sort of fascinating, and seeing it from above provided an entirely new perspective. It reminded Cullen of his childhood in Honnleath, when he had gotten endless entertainment watching the neighboring farm’s sheepdog herding a flock. The nobles studied Dorian intently, moving in a wave with every gesture he made. And Dorian was keenly aware of his audience, maneuvering through the crowd with the precision of a dancer. Or perhaps an assassin; even from above, Cullen could see the way some of them went still as Dorian chatted with them. They feared him as much as they were fascinated by him. 

A muffled voice crooned through the door. “BigBlondJackbootUp’isArseSaysWot?”

Cullen rolled his eyes, and called loudly enough to be heard through the door. “Can I help you, Sera?”

“Shite, uh, forgot what I came for, bye!” 

Cullen darted for the door and opened it before Sera could escape fully. “Sera!”

“Uuuugh, what?” she asked, turning on her heel to give him an irritated look.

“I realise that I’m your favorite target for nonsense, but-”

“Ppppbbbbthhhhh.” Sera interrupted him with a particularly robust raspberry. “As if.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ol’ shiny head is my favorite target, because he’s the worst,” Sera explained, like it ought to have been obvious to anyone with a brain. “Followed by Vivi, because she’s also the worst. You’re maybe third or fourth, depending on whether Josie Britches is being normal or all stupid and posh.”

Cullen blinked. “Noted. Regardless, this is the worst event I’ve ever been forced to attend because all of the nobility will be paying attention to me, so I am  _ begging _ you: no pranks on me.”

She considered, her eyes narrowed. “None at all?”

“Please?” Cullen did not really know how to convincingly plead, but he hoped that his eyes were doing it for him. “No bees, no water, no buckets full of feathers, no whatever it was that made my desk sit at a different angle.  _ Nothing _ .”

Sera screwed up her face for a moment before groaning, “Fiiiiiine. But only because you got given to Magister Mage-stache like a fancy pony in some ooky magical thing, and that’s fucked up.”

He took a moment to parse that, and then sighed in relief. “Thank you. You have my permission to resume the nonsense once this is all over.”

She shook her head, pitying. “You can’t ‘give permission’ for a prank, Cullen. Honestly, like I’m dealing with babies here.”

And then Sera was off, scampering down the stairs. Cullen felt a moment of pity for whichever nobles happened to catch her eye, but only a moment. Tonight was the first official formal dinner, and he would be trotted out like the fancy pony Sera had named him. It was not the official ball, not yet, but it would be a trial run of all the things that were going to annoy him.

\---

The great hall really was a sight to see when Josephine was given free reign to decorate. Vast silk draperies hung from the ceiling, dyed with enough colors to beggar a king and bearing the insignias of the Inquisition, the Chantry, the Circle of Magi, and Maxwell’s home city of Ostwick. Glass globes filled with veilfire hovered in the air, held in place with enchantments and ensuring that no inch of the hall was shadowed. Fire crackled merrily in every fireplace, and the tables bordering them were laden down with delicacies from all corners of Thedas. The musicians perched on the balconies created a background hum of lyres and flutes. The scene would have been at home in any royal’s court, not that Cullen had seen many. 

Usually, they never bothered with a high table, preferring to keep the area around Maxwell’s throne relatively uncluttered. But for this event, it had been pulled from storage and bedecked with the good candelabras and cloth-of-gold table runners. Maxwell sat at the center, perched on his throne with an easy confidence. Cullen sat to his left, with Dorian on his other side. Josephine, Cassandra, and Leliana sat to Maxwell’s right, and while that kept Cullen from being able to chat with them, he could at least cast significant looks to Cassandra down the table.

Sitting next to Dorian was an unexpected boon that evening. He was bright and vivacious, pulling attention away from Cullen and allowing him to lurk safely in the background. Dorian drew all eyes to him the same way a dragon would, awed and nervous in equal measure. 

“And that, naturally, is when the mercenaries burst in and demanded that negotiations cease.” Dorian gestured widely with his silver goblet of wine. “There had to have been a dozen of them, all Tal-Vashoth and at least eight feet tall. But this is just the normal course of things on the coastline near Seheron, and so I was prepared to spring into action with-”

Cullen smiled into his own wine, shaking his head. Maxwell looked nearly as enraptured by Dorian’s nonsense as their guests, and for a moment he was nothing more than a carefree young man.

That lasted until Bann Aedric leaned forward and cleared his throat. “I understand you’ve let that magister who was going to enslave the Circle mages keep his head, Inquisitor? Why?”

“I saw the effects of Alexius’ research into time travel firsthand,” Maxwell said, shrugging as if such a thing was an everyday occurrence. In the Inquisition, it was. “With magic like the Breach in play, I want us to have every advantage. The knowledge in Alexius’ head may give us that advantage. He’ll atone for what he’s done under my supervision, and he’ll help the world while he’s at it.” The Inquisitor’s smile was sharp as he added, “I don’t like things going to waste.”

“But how can you trust that he will not turn on you?” asked a comtesse whose name Cullen couldn’t even remember. “A man willing to ally himself with that monster, surely he cannot be rational?”

Dorian leaned forward, offering a wide grin. “My dear woman, who better to judge the tameness of a captured magister than another magister?”

“But does the Imperium-”

“The Archon himself has declared we have his full support in the trial and sentencing of any captured Venatori, no matter their family connections.” Dorian sipped his wine, smug as any housecat. “We’re free to remove their heads or set them to work digging latrines if we’d like.”

“And you say that Alexius has been brought to heel?” That was Corinna Silvius, seated at the far end of the table. “It sounds so unlikely, not that I would ever gainsay you, Magister Pavus.” 

Cullen was close enough to see Maxwell tilt his head minutely and drum his fingers once on the throne. Then he ordered, “Have him brought up, then. Let the world see that the Inquisition doesn’t abuse their prisoners  _ or _ let them run wild.”

Beneath the table, Cullen tapped Dorian on the knee and gave him a questioning look. Surely seeing his former mentor trotted out like a broken mule would be hard on Dorian, even after all Alexius had done?

In response, Dorian reached out and squeezed Cullen’s knee, his face never changing from a mask of faintly amused boredom. It was as much of a reassurance as he could afford to offer.

Cullen had not seen Alexius in person since the night he’d interrogated him. The former magister was not an imposing figure. He was clad in simple, basic workman’s clothing, drab brown and unadorned. He looked tired and harried, and like he hadn’t bothered to shave this morning. He visibly winced as he stepped into the noise and light of the great hall, shackled at the wrists and led by two guards.

There was silence, and then a ripple of taunts and jeers from the crowd as Alexius was led down the central aisle. 

“Monster!” 

“Traitor!” 

“Heretic!”

A different crowd might have thrown things, but the genteel visitors were content to toss insults. Alexius had a wary, uncertain expression on his face as he was marched to stand before Maxwell.

“Inquisitor,” Alexius said tightly. He glanced at Dorian, did a double-take at the sight of Cullen, but his nerve held. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Some of our guests were curious about how you found the Inquisition’s hospitality.” Maxwell had the playful gleam in his eye that Cullen recognized all too well. “And they worry that you might be dangerous. Are you dangerous, Alexius?”

With a bitter grimace, Alexius shook his head. “My time has come and gone.”

“Are you happy that I’ve spared your life, undeserving as you are?”

“No.”

Maxwell offered an ironic toast to the assembled guests. “And there you have it. He’ll serve the Inquisition, like it or not. Alexius, stay for dinner, won’t you?”

Dorian’s hand tightened sharply on Cullen’s knee, and Cullen sighed and called out to the guards, “Seat him up here. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

At the sound of Cullen’s voice, Alexius’ jaw dropped. Oh yes, he definitely recognized that Cullen had been the person who questioned him about Dorian. The flabbergasted look on Alexius’ face would hopefully be mistaken for dismay by the crowd.  _ This _ was going to be an awkward dinner. 

Maxwell moved the conversation on, his point made: Alexius lived, died, and served at the Inquisitor’s pleasure. Dorian gestured to one of the servants, who brought a stool up to the table and placed it on Dorian’s other side. Alexius was barely seated before he hissed sometime in Tevene at Dorian.

“Be quiet and drink some wine, Gereon,” Dorian murmured, his smirk never cracking.

Alexius growled something else in Tevene, leaning in close to Dorian and jerking his chin at Cullen.

Whatever he said made Dorian blink just once and then turn to look at Cullen. “Oh, really?”

With a sigh, Cullen leaned forward to join the conversation. “Hello again, Magister.”

“Had I known you were planning to tattoo Dorian’s signature all over yourself, I might have advised you that he’s not one for public romantic gestures.”

“Oh, the tattoo was already there.” Cullen smiled humorlessly. “But I’ll note that for the future.”

“Is that why I was blindfolded?” Alexius stole Dorian’s wine and downed half of it in one gulp. “Andraste’s pyre, I thought this gossip about you taking the Inquisition’s commander as a consort was some kind of elaborate prank being played on me. Dorian, are you out of your mind?”

“It’s lovely to know you two are already fast friends.” Dorian’s smile was entirely content. His tone was icy.

“Can we speak about this later, please?” Cullen asked. “Not in public?”

“Oh, we most certainly will be speaking about it later.” And that was the last time Dorian spoke to Cullen for the rest of the evening. All Cullen’s attempts to follow up (or even just ask him to pass something down) were ignored as if he’d never spoken at all. By the time the next course was being served, Cullen resigned himself to the silent treatment.

Alexius, in the meantime, seemed fascinated by Cullen’s marks. Once a new round of plates were on the table, he leaned back to speak over Dorian directly to Cullen. For the first time since he’d been dragged to Skyhold, he seemed almost lively. “How on earth did you two manage this?”

“It’s not pleasant dinner conversation.” It took genuine effort not to scowl down at his food, but Cullen couldn’t forget the eyes on him. 

“It is apparently the only dinner conversation you’ll be getting,” Alexius responded. 

Between them, Dorian sliced through his portion of fish far more roughly than was warranted. To all outward observation, he was ignoring them completely to focus on some discussion about the Emerald Graves that Maxwell was leading. 

“Would you like to go back to your room, magister?” Cullen snapped, careful to keep his voice low.

“I’m here as a trophy, a livelier version of a severed head on a pike.” Alexius stole a dinner roll off Dorian’s plate, moaning a little at the taste of butter and herbs as he bit into it. “Mmmph. Anyway, I can’t do that from a cell.” 

“But you can do it gagged, so keep that in mind.”

“That’s no way to speak to the man who sponsored your beloved consort.” Alexius was actually  _ smirking _ at Cullen. He reached for Dorian’s plate again.

Dorian’s hand shot out, gripping Alexius’ wrist. In an imminently reasonable tone, he turned to Alexius and said, “If you touch my plate with your grubby prison fingers again, I will electrocute you.” He released his grip. “Cullen will have a plate sent down for you later.”

This was said without actually looking at Cullen, or asking if it was feasible. For his part, Cullen just sighed, “As you wish.”

There was peace for another two courses. Cullen was willing to tolerate the disquieting sensation of Alexius staring straight at the side of his face in fascination if it bought him silence. But the relentless need to prod was apparently something Alexius shared with his protégé. 

Keeping his voice thankfully low, Alexius murmured, “You know, Commander, General Samson spoke about you often.”

Cullen went still and laid his silverware down calmly. Under the guise of reaching for a tureen of gravy, Cullen grabbed Alexius’ left hand and bent his index finger back so sharply that another ounce of pressure would snap the bone.

“ _ No, _ ” Cullen ordered, like he was scolding a dog who was lunging for a scrap of food.

Alexius grimaced, but he had not risen to his rank by being a coward. “Not interested in hearing about your old flame?”

Smiling politely, Cullen used his ‘talking to blood mages’ tone that promised nothing but pain. “Magister. If you say a single word more about Samson to me, I will wait until dinner is finished, and then I will take you down into the Undercroft and break every bone in this hand. And if you make a single noise during it, I’ll break your wrist too. Are we clear?”

Between them, Dorian said, “Pass the salt, please, Maxwell.”

Alexius grunted in pain and finally nodded. “As you say.”

“Wonderful.” Cullen released him and leaned back, taking the salt that Maxwell was passing down in one easy motion.

The rest of dinner was blessedly free of any chaos. Dorian gave Cullen a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and then disappeared without a word, which wasn’t a surprise. They were going to have it out in the morning, apparently.

...or perhaps not. When Cullen ‘woke’ in the Fade, it was to the unpleasant discovery that he was lying on the bare stone. The bed was missing entirely. Rather than a peaceful, sunny jungle, the scene outside the glass windows was a raging storm. Lightning cracked across the sky, and the cloud-choked darkness was downright ominous. Dorian was nowhere to be seen, but his anger was a tangible presence.

Cullen sighed, standing up and putting hands on his hips. “So this is my punishment? You took the bed away?”

A deafening crack of thunder shook the room around him, and lightning arced through the sky in a blinding streak.

“Stop being ridiculous and come talk to me!”

The thunder roared again, even louder this time.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Cullen resigned himself to shouting up at the ceiling. “It’s not as if I’ve been befriending him behind your back to spite you, Dorian! I spoke to him one time.”

Another furious rumble of thunder shook the entire room, nearly knocking Cullen off his feet.

“Stop that and let me explain!” He paused to see if Dorian was planning to toss a hurricane his way. When there was nothing aside from the sound of the rain, Cullen continued, “When Josephine suggested the idea of becoming your consort, I wasn’t sure. The idea...it frightened me in some ways. I was frightened in general. I wanted to know what kind of person you were.”

There was silence, which was probably as close to encouragement as Dorian would get while in the middle of a tantrum. 

“He was the only person besides Maxwell that I could think of who actually knew you.” Cullen shrugged helplessly. “I asked about why you turned to blood magic-” the wind outside howled, “-and he didn’t know. But otherwise, he was actually fairly complimentary.”

The silence was skeptical this time.

“He said that when you were his apprentice, you were ‘the best of Tevinter.’ He said you were a good man.” With a sigh, Cullen admitted, “It was part of the reason I agreed to be your consort, knowing that you had...had a softer side.”

There was a moment of continued tension, and then the rain stopped abruptly. A second later, the bed reappeared as if it had never been gone.

“Am I forgiven?”

Thunder rumbled again, and Cullen chuckled. “All right, all right. I won’t push my luck.”

\---

When Cullen walked into his office to change after the last round of afternoon drills, it was to find Dorian sitting behind his desk.

“Move,” he ordered. That was  _ his _ desk, and no one else was allowed to sit at it.

“I’m cross with you,” Dorian began, as if Cullen hadn’t spoken at all. He sat with his leg crossed and his fingers steepled, looking sinister and attractive in equal measure. “And I find myself at an impasse, because I want to punish you but don’t want you to whine and sulk about how unfair it is.”

Maker save him, but the word ‘punish’ sent an entirely inappropriate bolt of heat down his spine. Dorian had utterly ruined him.

“So I’m going to kill several birds with one stone,” Dorian continued, smirking as if he knew exactly what was going through Cullen’s head. “I have a new toy I’ve wanted to try out. I want to see you squirm. And it will make this evening more enjoyable for you as well.”

“I cannot make a bad impression on the nobles,” Cullen said immediately. “Josephine will have my head. And I don’t want to be obviously...addled.”

Dorian grinned in a distinctly predatory way, like Cullen had just wandered into his trap. “Not to worry, dear consort. I thought we could make it a wager and a test of your self-control.”

“I find it insulting that you think I’m so competitive that I will allow you t-to molest me in front of half the nobles as part of a dare.”

“Am I wrong?”

“...show me this toy.”

Dorian had  _ ruined _ him.

He was honestly unsure what to expect when Dorian rummaged in his robes. Something phallic, most likely. Possibly spikes? Possibly terrifying. So when Dorian produced a leather ring, it was almost...anticlimactic.

“Is that an, erm, cock ring?” The delighted expression on Dorian’s face made Cullen wish he’d never asked. 

“Commander! How does a good Chantry boy like you know what that looks like?”

No amount of scowling and rolling his eyes could hide the way he blushed, and it was much safer to retreat behind irritation. “I’m not going to walk around with an erection, for the Maker’s sake. Absolutely not. Are you insane?”

“Have a little faith in me, Cullen.” Dorian twirled the ring casually around his finger, the metal adornments on the outside catching the light. “Assuming you can stay soft for the next few minutes - a difficult proposition when I'm in the room, I know - this will actually keep you from getting hard for as long as it's on. So none of our very important guests will even know anything is amiss.”

Cullen narrowed his eyes, immediately distrustful. “Then what’s the point?”

Dorian’s smile was innocent and wholly at odds with the fact that he was tossing the cock ring from hand to hand.”Maybe I just like watching you squirm.” At Cullen’s stone-faced expression, he laughed and added, “Here, I'll sweeten the deal. If you get through the night without asking me to take it off, you can ask anything you like of me.  _ Anything _ .

The rush of blood southward was both dizzying and embarrassing. Cullen cleared his throat and grunted out, “Hmm. Tempting.”

“I know I am.” Dorian held up a finger. “This is where the wager comes in. If you  _ do _ ask me to take it off, then I win and can do anything I like to you.”

“...that’s very vague.”

“I’m sure you’ll have no problems at all, given that famous self-control the Templars are known for.”

The possibility that this was a trap of some kind was obvious. He hadn’t allowed lust to make him this stupid since he’d been a teenager. “All I have to do is keep it on? And you promise that it will neither force me to get hard nor hurt me?”

“Exactly! I'll be very charming and beautiful, you get to try out a new toy and be slightly distracted from all the chatter. Everyone wins.”

Cullen reached out and took the ring from Dorian’s hand, examining it as much as he could bear to. It looked entirely normal, if over-decorated with studs on the outside and looping patterns in the leather. 

“Of course, if you’re afraid…” Dorian trailed off with a shrug.

Before he could think better of it, Cullen snapped, “Fine.”

Dorian’s grin was actually a little terrifying. “Wonderful. Unlace your trousers, Commander.”

With a strangled sound, Cullen murmured, “I’m sorry?”

“I'm putting it on you, of course.” Dorian took the ring, his eyes hot enough to burn. “Trousers down.”

That was how Cullen came to be standing in his own office, his trousers and smallclothes around his knees, while Dorian knelt in front of him. Anyone who walked in would have a very different idea of what was happening, and Cullen had never been more thankful the doors were locked.

The leather was surprisingly warm and supple, and he inhaled sharply as Dorian buckled it around him. It was strange how intimate this felt, considering that Dorian had actually been inside him plenty of times. But there was something about feeling the mage’s fingers stroking across his stones, maneuvering the most sensitive parts of him as he desired...

“Someone’s getting started early.” Dorian’s words were warm against his thighs.

“Shut up and buckle it.” If he looked down, Cullen knew there was no way he could stop himself from getting hard.

He could feel Dorian’s breath ghost across his skin when he chuckled, but a few seconds later, the ring was secured. It felt strange, certainly. While not painfully tight, it was difficult to ignore. It would be distracting, without a doubt.

Dorian gave his cock a pat before stepping back. “Fits like a glove.”

Cullen winced as he pulled his clothing back into something resembling order. “A very tight glove.”

“Well, that's rather the point, isn't it?” Dorian saluted mockingly. “Now, get changed for dinner, consort dearest. We have a fun night ahead of us.”

Oh Maker, he would live to regret this.

The great hall was a cacophony of noise and merriment, just like the previous evening. Cullen had made certain to wear a tunic that covered his lap completely, but as he walked to the high table, he was fairly sure it wouldn’t be needed. It was impossible to forget he was wearing the cock ring, and it was tight enough that he certainly wasn’t going to get hard with it on.

He took his seat next to Dorian, who greeted him with an innocent, “Nothing pinching, I hope?”

With a glare, Cullen responded, “Everything fits fine.”

Dorian’s grin was actually fond. “You’re adorable.”

“And you’re unbearable,” Cullen said, shaking his head and trying to pretend that the praise didn’t make his cheeks pink.

The first two courses passed without incident. While many nobles tried to make small talk, Cullen’s monosyllabic answers had them searching for a different conversational partner soon enough. He couldn’t forget that he was wearing a...a _toy_ underneath his clothing in front of all of these people, but it wasn’t unbearable. The servants brought out a new round of plates, and Cullen idly noticed that Dorian was fidgeting with the heavy gold ring on his thumb. 

Then his lips began to tingle. 

It was a strange sensation, and Cullen was immediately concerned that someone had poisoned him. Or more likely, was trying to poison the Inquisitor. He licked his lips and inhaled sharply at how sensitive they felt suddenly. 

“Are you well?” Dorian asked, his voice pitched low. 

“I think something’s been poisoned.” Cullen was already looking towards the healer’s wing. “We should warn the Inquisitor and-”

Dorian’s chuckle brought him up short. “I promise, no one's been poisoned.”

Cullen’s eyes went wide as the realization sank in. The cock ring. Dorian had put some sort of lewd enchantment on the damned cock ring. The cock ring that he was currently wearing. Through gritted teeth, he muttered, “This is your doing, then? I feel like ants are crawling in my mouth.”

“Hmm, interesting. I did say it was a new toy.” Dorian stroked a finger across the ring on his thumb again, and Cullen saw the quickest flash of magic. “Now?”

_ Oh.  _ The rush of intensity was sudden and maddening. Saliva pooled in his mouth, and he had to swallow a few times. He wanted...he needed…

“Oooh, there it is,” Dorian laughed. “How do you feel.”

“Um--ah, f-fine.”

He wanted a cock in his mouth. The realization struck him hard, and he made the mistake of licking his lips again. Maker, but they were so sensitive, _he_ was so sensitive. He wanted Dorian’s cock in his mouth, wanted to suck and lick and-

Cullen’s voice was strangled as he managed to ask, “What in the Maker’s name is this?”

Dorian’s face was the picture of innocence as he speared a small bit of carrot on his fork and held it up to Cullen. “Here, darling. Have a bite.”

His breath hitched, and he managed to squeak out, “...I’m full.”

Dorian’s gaze was a nearly physical weight, his pleasure obvious. “Oh, I  _ insist _ .”

Damn it all, he couldn’t think, at least not about anything that wasn’t wrapping his lips around something. With a sense of mounting defeat, Cullen opened his mouth just slightly.

The fork touching his lips was like kindling catching fire, sending heat racing through him. Unable to stop himself completely, he leaned forward to wrap his lips fully around the bite, moaning as Dorian slid the fork out. More, more, he wanted _more,_ wanted something in his mouth all the time, wanted weight in his throat-

“Good?” Dorian had never looked more smug, more delighted.

“This is cheating.” He ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth, mourning how  _ empty  _ he felt. “This isn’t fair.”

“I’m an evil magister, Cullen. I never play fair.”

Time passed in a desperate blur. He couldn’t eat, because eating was just enough to make him think about how badly he wanted to crawl beneath the table and wrap his lips around Dorian. He couldn’t drink, because the sensation of liquid on his lips felt like someone was running their fingers across his nipples. People spoke to him and it was all Cullen could do to blink stupidly and offer a simple answer, since his entire mind was consumed with-

“Are you all right, Cullen?” Maxwell’s voice.

Belatedly, Cullen realized that he’d shoved his thumb into his mouth and was frantically chewing at his fingernail in some desperate attempt to get the stimulation he needed. Forcing his hand back onto the table, Cullen offered a strained smile. “J-Just distracted, Inquisitor.”

“Cullen, why don’t you tell Maxwell that idea you had earlier, about the supply lines?” Dorian’s voice was sweet as sugar, and all Cullen could think about was the taste and weight and heat of his prick. 

“P-perhaps later.”

The next course was served, and Dorian gave him a look of faux-concern. “Poor thing, you’re so flushed. Would you like some help?”

“I’m going to murder you.” He had the tip of his thumb in his mouth again, unable to help himself. 

“Tsk, this is the sort of attitude that leads to punishment in the first place, Cullen.” Dorian looked so very pleased with himself. “Yes or no? Would you like help?”

_ This is a trap, this is a trap, this is a trap- _ “Yes!” Because there was a very real possibility that he was about to start fellating one of the candlesticks if this didn’t stop.

Dorian twisted the heavy gold ring on his thumb, and abruptly, the torment ceased. His lips felt normal again, rather than being the center of every pleasurable nerve in his body. The fog of lust in his mind began to dissipate. 

Cullen glared at Dorian. “What did you do?”

“Do?” Dorian asked, the picture of wounded innocence.

But Cullen already had an inkling. His hips were squirming, and he felt...empty. Almost aching to be filled. He ground his ass down against the seat without even meaning to, his breath coming faster.

“Oh dear, that didn’t help at all.” Dorian shook his head. “You have my most sincere apologies.”

How long had it been since Dorian had bent him over something and fucked him? Too long, Maker, far too long, and it wasn’t fair. He wanted to feel Dorian’s hand on the back of his neck, his cock sliding home, helpless and wonderful and-

“Do you yield, Commander?”

When had he closed his eyes? He was bouncing slightly in his seat, desperate for friction. Dorian slung a casual arm over the back of his chair and leaned in to murmur, “Or would you like to see what else the ring can do?”

Cullen’s voice was a breathy moan. “I yield.”

“Wonderful.” Their faces were inches apart. “Eat up, my dear. I’m going to fuck you on the War Table later tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear not: We'll be seeing the War Table sex.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be straight with you: this is an entire chapter of fucking. Bon appétit, my friends.

“Th-the markers on that table are important for tracking where everything is!”

“As if you don’t have all of them memorized.” Hands on his thighs, a sharp nip on his ear. 

“The maps a-are--oh, oh, that--”

“If I were a cruel man,” the hand that had been kneading Cullen’s ass suddenly pinched it sharply, “I’d keep that cock ring on you and fuck you on the maps. Any stains would be all your fault, wouldn’t they?”

Cullen wrapped a leg around Dorian’s hip, grinding them together even though the damned cock ring was still keeping him soft. The sensation was unlike anything he’d felt before, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Far from it, really. He couldn’t help but whine, desperate and eager.

“But I’m a merciful patron,” Dorian murmured, kissing the line of his throat, “and you are  _ such _ a pretty boy.”

At this rate, they weren’t even going to reach the War Table. They’d just barely gotten through Josephine’s office before Dorian had pinned him to the wall in the long corridor leading to the War Table. Maker, how was he ever going to walk down this hallway again without blushing?

“Come on, sweetling.” Dorian pried himself away, laughing and taking Cullen by the hand. “The War Table awaits.”

The chamber was dark, the only light coming from pale moonlight streaming through the windows. As Dorian stripped off his coat, his armor, his swordbelt, Cullen let himself be bared. He gave one final, valiant attempt at propriety when he was down to only his white undershirt and trousers.

“I’ll never be able to look anyone in the eye ever again!” he protested, his voice breathy. Dorian maneuvered him into the spot where he usually stood to give reports and counsel to Maxwell. The edge of the table dug into his lower back, and he could feel how flushed his cheeks were.

“It will just make you look polite and demure,” Dorian said, his grin wide and wolfish. He stepped forward to pin Cullen more thoroughly, his arms boxing him in on either side. “Perfect for my good boy.”

Cullen bit his lip, feeling heat shiver down his spine.

“Give me your wrist,” Dorian ordered, soft and impossible to disobey. He held out his hand like he was waiting for Cullen to give him a book.

How could he say no, when he knew it would lead to such wonderful things? With a sigh of surrender, Cullen dropped his wrist into Dorian’s hand and moaned softly as he felt himself go weak.

“There you are,” Dorian purred, pushing Cullen back a little to make sure his weight was completely against the table. Then Dorian’s free hand was at the ties of his trousers, unfairly deft and nimble as he burrowed through Cullen’s final defenses.

“You’ve been so good.” Dorian squeezed down on his soft cock gently, his fingers tapping at the buckle holding it on. “So desperate for me but sitting so patiently, even when the only thing you could think of was my cock.”

“Please,” Cullen whispered, his cheeks burning red at how...how  _ slutty _ he sounded, wanton and willing to do anything to be touched.

Grinning with smug delight, Dorian worked the buckle until the cock ring went loose, dropping it on the floor behind him once it was off Cullen. And Cullen…

An entire night’s worth of need flooded into his cock, and it stiffened so quickly that he actually felt dizzy. If the War Table hadn’t held him up, he would have fallen. He could  _ feel _ the air on the burning hot skin of his prick, the faintest breeze like a caress. In seconds, he was leaking, as wet as if he’d been hard for hours. 

“I’m going to let go of your wrist for just a moment--no, don’t whine, it will only be for a moment.” Dorian licked the shell of his ear and whispered, “I want you to bend yourself over the War Table and spread for me. And then I’ll fuck you like you need.”

He would surely die from this, just combusting from humiliation and need and the desire for Dorian to fuck him until he couldn’t walk. Shaking like a man in the grips of a fever, Cullen turned so that he was facing the War Table. His hands clumsy, he shoved the maps out of the way, sending the metal markers clattering. This was so, so wrong, and he had never wanted anything more.

“Let me just get you into something more comfortable.” Dorian was pressed into his back, and reached around Cullen loosen the final buttons keeping Cullen’s shirt on. It fluttered somewhere behind him. Then Dorian’s hands were on his hips, forcing his trousers down, murmuring some kind of pleased nonsense as Cullen stepped out of his boots and smalls to stand completely naked. Dorian had not taken off a stitch of clothing.

“You know what to do next, Commander,” Dorian purred. “I don’t even have to order you to do it, naughty thing.”

And he really didn’t. His heart pounding and his cock absolutely dripping, Cullen bent himself forward until his cheek rested on the ancient wood of the War Table. His whole body flushed as he reached back, spreading his ass open until he could feel the cool air against his hole. 

“So beautiful.” Dorian’s hand drifted up his thigh. “I’d commission a portrait if I could, call it ‘The Commander At Attention’ and hang it in the great hall.”

Cullen moaned, raw and pathetic.

“But that would be like sharing you, and I could never do that.” Warm fingers against his hole, tapping softly. Then there was a sudden gush of grease, and Dorian’s index finger slid into him with almost no resistance.

“Look at you, opening so well for me.” Dorian’s rings were cool against his most sensitive skin as he worked Cullen open. “Maker, you’re desperate for it. I can already get a second finger in you.”

He crooked his fingers to demonstrate, the motion making Cullen buck against the table.

“You’re perfect like this.” Dorian’s fingers slid in and out in a quick, relentless rhythm, occasionally magicking another burst of grease until Cullen was quite literally dripping. “Now ask politely, consort.”

“Please fuck me!” Cullen was so far gone that he didn’t even have the presence of mind to whisper the request. It emerged in a shout instead. “Please, please ser, fuck me, I’ve been so good--oh!”

His voice broke as Dorian slid home, sinking his cock into Cullen in one long, unyielding motion. Even greased and stretched, the pleasant burn of it made Cullen whimper. He was gripping his own buttocks so hard that it would leave bruises, but he had not been ordered to let go. All he could do was whine and shiver and hold himself open while Dorian mounted him.

The leather and silk of Dorian’s robes surrounded him, tickling his skin as Dorian bottomed out. Only when the mage was fully seated inside him did he murmur, “Now give me your wrist again.”

Cullen drew a small amount of satisfaction from the fact that Dorian’s voice was utterly wrecked. Then his wrist was Dorian’s grip, pinning him against the table, and Cullen was free to use his other hand to cling onto the wood for dear life.

When Dorian started thrusting, Cullen’s thoughts dissolved into a hazy, fragmented mess.  _ Hot  _ and  _ full  _ and  _ good  _ were all he could think, his cock rubbing against the War Table with every movement Dorian made. He did not have much leverage to thrust back, but he used every ounce he had.

“Listen to you, moaning like a slut, my good boy, this is what you’re best at, isn’t it?” Dorian was almost babbling, a mess of filth and praise as he found a rhythm that made Cullen’s eyes roll back.

Was he moaning? He was, Cullen realized distantly. Moaning with wordless, helpless need, like an animal in heat.

“Whose are you, my beautiful boy?” Dorian punctuated the question with a particularly hard thrust, his stones slapping against Cullen’s so hard it was audible.

“Yours, I’m yours, only yours, please never stop!” Cullen could barely recognize his own voice, high and desperate and choked with desire.

That kicked Dorian over some kind of precipice, and he started fucking Cullen in earnest. Each slam of his hips rocked the massive wooden table, and each thrust was so deep that it left Cullen weak-kneed. 

“Fuck, Maker,  _ ahh! _ ” Cullen clawed at the table, digging his fingers into where the borders of Orlais normally lay.

“The sounds you make,” Dorian purred, cupping his ass and squeezing it possessively. “Look at you, Cullen. All of Thedas at the Inquisition’s fingertips, and I’m the only one who gets to see you like this.”

Dorian jabbed his hips forward, every inch of his cock sending little shockwaves of pleasure through Cullen’s nerves, and added, “The world at my feet, and you’re the finest thing in it.”

“Please, please, harder,  _ please _ ,” Cullen begged, rutting back against Dorian with a desperation that would have been shameful if he had possessed the wherewithal to feel shame. Instead he was entirely consumed by the slide of Dorian’s cock in and out of him, grease dripping from him and leaving warm, slick trails along his thighs. 

He was wanton and shameless and would have happily spent the rest of his life being fucked by Dorian.

But Dorian was just as desperate as he was, his rhythm becoming jerky and his breath coming in gasps the longer he pounded into Cullen. When he spoke again, it emerged as a moan. “Come for me,  _ amatus.” _

Cullen came with a scream, slamming a fist against the War Table as an entire night of desperation came to a head. Blood roared in his ears, pleasure blotted out the world, and he felt himself coating the table and his own stomach with his spend. Dorian released his wrist to grab him by the hips, literally lifting Cullen off his feet to pound into him that much harder. Drooling against the War Table and entirely boneless, Cullen couldn’t have protested even if he wanted to. When Dorian finished, the warm, wet gush of heat inside made Cullen grunt.

There was no keeping track of time in the aftermath. There was only the pleasant, warm weight of Dorian resting on top of him, his heart pounding so hard that Cullen could feel it even through the mage’s robes. They were still joined together, and even Dorian’s slight movements made Cullen’s tender hole flutter just a little. When Dorian finally withdrew and step back, all Cullen could manage was a pathetic whine.  


"Just a moment, _amatus_," Dorian murmured. There was the sound of fabric rustling against stone, and then Dorian's hands were on his shoulders, tugging him up. It was appreciated, because Cullen could barely stand. Dorian had spread his robe out on the floor, partially underneath the table, and Cullen stretched out across it in a grateful heap.

He’d never seen the War Table from this angle, Cullen thought woozily, settling down onto the robes that smelled like Dorian. The whorls of the ancient wood spun a little in the pleasant, post-coital haze.

Dorian laid down next to him, looking a bit wobbly himself as he settled in. "Sturdy craftsmanship, I'll give the elves that."  


Cullen took a deep breath, gathering what little remained of his strength. Then he rolled on top of Dorian, pinning him with his weight and staying low to avoid banging his head on the table.

“Oof! Cull-”

“Don’t ever,  _ ever _ use magic on me again without asking first,” he said firmly. It took effort to be stern when Dorian was blinking up at him with rosy cheeks and a ruffled mustache, but he was good at being stern.

“Not even when-”

“I’m serious, Dorian.” Cullen pointed down at him. “Are you listening? Never again without asking.”

Dorian leaned up slightly to kiss the tip of his finger. “All right, all right. I’m sorry.” He patted the ground next to him. “I promise I will always ask first from now on. I should have asked first tonight.”

His expression softening, Cullen leaned down to kiss Dorian gently before settling next to him once again. The stones beneath them were cold, but Dorian’s robes were a soft, warm barrier. With a sigh, Cullen leaned his head against Dorian’s shoulder, his eyes drifting closed.

“Don’t get too comfortable, my darling,” Dorian murmured, nuzzling against his hair. “That would give Josephine quite a fright to walk in and find us tomorrow morning, wouldn’t it?”

Cullen smiled. “Am I forgiven, then? For daring to speak to Alexius without getting your written permission, signed in triplicate?”

“Hmph!” Dorian gave him a light spank. “Yes, I suppose so.”

They were quiet for a few fuzzy moments, time slipping away as Cullen drifted in and out of a light doze. There were no sounds at all besides the gentle noise of Dorian’s breath, the soft thump of his pulse that Cullen could hear through the skin. It was the most peaceful thing he could remember in a very long time.


End file.
